


Without a Clue

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bedroom Sex, Cluedo, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Frottage, Home, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Smut, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock accepts an invitation to attend a murder mystery weekend at a hotel with John, Mycroft, Greg Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly in close attendance. The theme is Cluedo and John's already worried about his costume.</p><p>John's happy enough to go, but given that he's struggling through a definite desire for his flatmate, perhaps taking the room next to him wasn't wise.</p><p>But pretty, definitely pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cluedo

The costume was all wrong, John was certain of that.

For the past two weeks, Sherlock had been in a terrible mood. He hadn't sulked; John could and did cope with sulking by ignoring it. Instead he'd muttered under his breath, tossed the paper away and eaten with more gusto than usual. It had been quite disturbing and the number of texts that passed between Sherlock and Mycroft were clearly not an expression of brotherly love. When John finally found the invitation, it was a relief for the few minutes before reality set in. John and Sherlock had been invited to attend a Murder Mystery weekend in the Cotswolds to solve the murder of Doctor Black and more surprisingly, Sherlock had accepted the offer.

The invitation was one of several which had arrived on the mat downstairs over the past year. John felt perfectly at ease shredding most of the invites from people who were, he was sure, either inviting them so that they could ask Sherlock endless questions he would find boring, or people who wanted to mock the man John lived with. John was certain Sherlock would be uninterested either way and disposed of them before Sherlock knew they existed. However this one, with the elegant script across the back and the glossy papered inlay had got past him.

"It's just Cluedo," said John for at least the third time that morning. "There's only six of us. It'll be fine. You'll solve it in minutes and then we can go to the bar, I can get drunk and you can amuse yourself by working out why everyone else is there."

"They'll be there because they were invited," said Sherlock. "It doesn't take a genius to tell you that."

"And yet you do anyway," said John and grinned. "Come on, you're bored at the moment. There aren't any convenient serial killers on the loose that the police can't locate and it's just a weekend."

"Forty-eight hours," said Sherlock. "To solve a mystery a child could work out."

"Apparently it's random," said John as he picked up the leaflet. "Just like the game. It could be any one of us."

"And that's another thing," said Sherlock and gestured to his case. "They expect me to play a character."

"I don't think they're expecting Hamlet," said John. "Just you, pretending to be someone else. You're good at that."

"I'm brilliant at that," said Sherlock and scrubbed his hands back through his hair. "I choose my character, it's not inflicted on me like some..."

"Game?" offered John. "Look, we could have refused but _you_ said you wanted to go. _You_ said it'd be a change."

"I said it offered the only modicum of interest in a dull month," said Sherlock and sighed. "Fine. At least we'll be out of London for Halloween."

"Bonus," grinned John. "Okay, well I'm fairly sure there might be a ghost or two in the hotel, but if you meet one, you can observe and tell me how they died. Now come on, Mycroft's sent the car."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he," said Sherlock and reached for his jacket and scarf as he headed for the door. "A weekend with my dear brother pretending to be someone else. The thrills never end."

John grabbed his case and followed Sherlock down the stairs. He didn't bother to hide his own excitement at the prospect of a weekend away. A nice break in a snug hotel was exactly John's idea of a good break from London. He loved her, every dirty street she could offer, but sometimes he needed to get away to miss her properly. Two nights in the picturesque countryside the South-West could offer up sounded ideal. He'd packed his suitcase with what he hoped was an appropriate costume, (and was already sure it wouldn't be) polished his shoes and tried to find something other than his flatmate to think about.

In past years he'd taken girlfriends for a dirty little weekend away, cosied up in a room and made the bedsprings bounce. This weekend he'd spend his nights alone, his bed cold on one side where he'd be unable to create that sort of heat by himself. Like so many nights before, John would be unable to sleep without taking his conscience-free penis in hand and wanking himself until he came with Sherlock's mouth at the forefront of his spank bank.

It was definitely an issue he would have to deal with.

Until this year, John identified clearly as heterosexual and never so much as wondered about another man. In his career as soldier and doctor he'd been an accidental voyeur, aware of so many different bodies, some perfect, some far less than that and only the women had turned him on. His type, as much as he had one, was deliberately girly, curvy and pretty, all the things that Sherlock was not. The man appeared far taller than he was and dressed accordingly. He could look grotesque and beautiful with the slightest turn of his head and his eyes saw everything. John just hoped they didn't understand everything.

He shouldn't be the object of John's desire, should just be the mate that they'd both been looking for and John felt it would discredit the closeness they had if he were to speak of it. It wasn't a case of questioning his sexual identity. He'd almost immediately accepted that he loved Sherlock and hadn't worried in the slightest. Love wasn't the issue at all. He could love Sherlock happily, not speak of it and knew that the affection was entirely returned. John would have neatly brushed it off as just that, but the dreams started and the fantasies followed until John decided that giving in and indulging on his own was the better and more nobler option. Not that he felt particularly noble when he came and had to bite back the harsh letters of his flatmate's name.  

Sherlock made John happy and while that could still be enough, John would keep his closeted wanking to himself and revel in being Sherlock's best friend. However, he was unable to avoid wanting more, no matter how certain he was that he'd never say a word. Tonight they'd be closer than usual, rooms already assigned and John had bitten down on the illicit thrill of sharing a bathroom with Sherlock and the risk of adjoining doors. If it took wearing a costume he was uncomfortable in, he was prepared for it; John had plans to further build up his memory of intimate Sherlock moments so that could tolerate the hard times ahead.

***

The hotel didn't loom but clung to the edge of the rolling hill. From the angle John had as he climbed out of the car, it looked a little lopsided, as though every last board might tilt to one side. Pretty, as cosy as promised and John hefted the case in his left hand as he opened the gate and listened to the creak.

"Well maintained," murmured Sherlock as he bent low to John's ear. " _Clearly_ this little venture is profitable."

"There's a chimney," said John. "It'll be all open fires and whiskey."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock and cleared his throat as they approached the door. "I don't have to be nice to him."

"I don't think you have to be anything to him," said John as the door opened and a smartly dressed woman in her mid fifties offered a frown to them both. John held his hand out, invitation displayed clearly and his meeting-the-parents smile to hand. "Hi," he said. "We're here for the weekend. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Yes," she said. "We've been expecting you, you're late."

"It was the traffic."

"Blame Mycroft," said Sherlock. "It was his car."

"He said you'd say that," said the landlady and smiled tightly. "You're still late. Get yourselves inside and," she paused and looked at them both. "Well, you'll do as you are, really. Got into costume back home?"

"I'm not in-" began John but Sherlock stepped forward, smiled and shook her hand.

"We changed in the car," he said and gestured for John to follow. "Saves time and all that."

"Yes," she said and nodded to their cases. "We don't have a porter. You can take those upstairs after you've introduced yourselves. Best not keep them waiting. This thing does have a schedule, you know. You're not supposed to dawdle."

She marched ahead and John smirked at Sherlock's eye roll. "She's quite the character."

"Certainly fulfills the battle-axe portion of the stay," he said and John set the cases next to the stair case.

"I suppose we could have come with Mrs Hudson."

"Am I not punished enough?" asked Sherlock and drew off his coat. "A weekend in company, making small talk."

"I think the idea is that you can question them," said John and straightened his jacket. "Hardly Colonel Mustard, is it?"

"Oh, cheer up, John. You've been promoted," said Sherlock and brushes imaginary dust from his lapel. "Well, shall we get this over with?"

"Try and enjoy it, Sherlock." John reached for the door and opened it into the dimly lit bar where the conversation of the few was loud and cheery. He hoped Sherlock wasn't about to blow it completely. Mrs Hudson caught sight of them first and hurried over, near empty glass very much in hand. She leaned up to kiss Sherlock's cheek and then John's own.

"Boys, you're late," she said and John smiled. "Oh! And you're not in costume?"

"I know," he said. "Sorry. Traffic was murder."

"Never mind," she said and beamed at both of them. "Come on, come and join in. It's ever so much fun."

"That remains to be seen," said Sherlock and grinned as he looked at Mycroft. "Oh now, that _is_ splendid."

"Hmm?" asked John and on noticing, cleared his throat and swallowed the giggle as best he could. "I thought it was _Mrs_ White?"

"Slight rewrite," said Mycroft and brushed his whites down carefully. "I thought it appropriate."

"Perfect," grinned Sherlock and nodded toward Lestrade. "Nice dog collar."

"Borrowed it from a mate of mine," said Greg and raised his glass, one arm sociably round Molly's back. "You look...the same as always."

"It's a plum colour," said Sherlock and John bit his lip slightly when Sherlock looked properly at Molly. It wasn't a risk. He was quite sure that Molly wasn't a risk, just a convenience for Sherlock in a way that made John regularly offer little gestures of kindness to make up for it. But tonight Molly was dressed in the tightest, tiniest little dress and her hair was fastened up in a way that John suspected would fall down with the removal of a single pin. It would be annoyingly typical if John, who didn't fancy men, was let down by Sherlock suddenly discovering an attraction to women.

She smiled, sweet and a little nervous and clearly quite taken by Greg's clear interest this evening. There was a lovely flush to her cheeks and her fingers gripped the stem of the glass a little too tightly. "I'm Miss Scarlett," she said and smiled. "It's all quite lovely here, isn't it?"

"It's definitely cosy," said John and nodded when Greg ordered in a beer. "So what happens now?"

"Someone dies," said Sherlock and sipped at the whiskey. "Is there an announcement?"

"It's in the schedule," said Mrs Hudson and offered her version up to Sherlock. "See? There, just after we all get to know one another."

"We _do_ know one another."

"No, the characters," she said and John chuckled. "Didn't you read your story?"

"Yeah," said John. "It was hardly extensive. I'm a colonel, retired and with a bit of a gambling habit. I know Doctor Black because we were at school together."

"Really, John?" asked Sherlock. "And from that you expect Molly to deduce whether you're a murderer?"

"It's what it said."

Sherlock sighed and set the glass on the fireplace. "Hardly a story."

"All right. You go on then, thrill us."

Sherlock smiled and John licked over his bottom lip as the man launched into a detailed and scandalous history of the professor. No stone was left unturned and by the time he'd quieted, they were all aware that he was left handed, that he had been mistakenly scorned by the Nobel committee and John was almost painfully hard. He stepped lightly to one side and leaned against the wingback. He kept his expression deliberately neutral and thought hard about complications of the limbic system to distract himself. It wasn't fair that John had reached a stage where he could be so affected by Sherlock's bloody voice. The sudden realisation that he would have to deal with this all weekend dawned and he drained the glass.

Mrs Hudson nudged him and John smiled at her. "I still don't know who invited us," she said. "Or why they'd all come."

"I don't know either," said John. "I'm assuming Sherlock does, but he's not telling. Mycroft's wearing chef whites, so it's probably God."

She chuckles and nudges him. "Well it'll be nice not have any real dead bodies for once."

"I think so."

"And nice for you boys to get a bit of time away," she said. "Especially you, John. Bit of a holiday."

"I'm hoping so," he said and glanced toward Sherlock again. He'd affected a stretch, one arm up above the fireplace and his shirt drawn tight. John cleared his throat and looked back at Mrs Hudson. "D'you think I have five minutes to put my stuff away before the victim shows up?"

"I'll cover you," she said and he kissed her cheek again before he walked quickly to the door. He grabbed their cases and the keys the landlady had helpfully left on top. The stairs were steep and John wasn't quite out of breath when he reached the second floor, but he felt better when he could drop Sherlock's bag outside his bedroom. He yanked his own door open and walked in, amused at the small room, the narrow queen size inside it and the creaky wardrobe in the corner. John checked that the window opened and closed properly before he set the case on the bed and unzipped it.

His jacket was a little creased but serviceable and John checked the tie he'd picked up against the colour of his shirt. He was fairly sure it didn't quite match, but then a colonel could wear anything he chose. Still, he pulled his spare shirt from the case and hauled his own over his head. A quick change and as he pushed the cotton down into his trousers, he paused, fingers close to his still semi-hard penis. A quick wank was really out of the question, but it might do much to settle his nerves if Sherlock intended to be at his most deductive.

John glanced up at the window behind the bed and took a quick breath. He could be efficient, could get this out of the way and head back downstairs to overcompensate by complimenting Molly. He unfastened his belt and his hand rested on his zip, about to free himself when he heard the door creak behind him. He turned and kept his hand loose over his waistband as he recognised Sherlock's manner of holding his breath. John was that obsessed, obviously and he offered a tight smile to his flatmate. "I'm getting into costume."

"You're fine as you are."

"I know, I'm just getting into the spirit of the thing," said John and nodded toward Sherlock. "You're just you."

"Acting's all attitude," said Sherlock, hand raised to brush it off. "It's hardly a challenge."

"Hmm, playing someone who's not a genius, I suppose not." John grinned. "You could get things wrong. It'd be in character."

"Not when I intend to win the game," said Sherlock and stepped into the room. "I assume mine is also this snug?"

"You're a traveling professor," said John. "You just need your brain."

"My brain likes a little room to move," said Sherlock and reached for the tie. "Double cross knot, John?"

"Oxford, I think," said John and stilled as Sherlock wrapped the tie round his neck. "I can do that myself."

"I'm here anyway," said Sherlock, his fingers working deftly to fasten it round John's neck. "This really doesn't go. Do you look at your clothes?"

"Yes," said John. "It goes fine. Shirt. Tie. I'm set." He reached to pull Sherlock's hand from his tie with a hand that didn't tremble. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Stop fussing. We'll go down together," said Sherlock. "There we are. All neatened up." He grinned. "We'll make a colonel of you yet."

"I actually fought in the war," huffed John. "I don't need to pretend."

He stared back at Sherlock, arms folded and realised his jacket was a little on the small side. He'd borrowed it for this weekend and hadn't tried it on before he got here. It only added to his discomfort and while he had no intention of jumping Sherlock, he saw no reason why he should back away in his own bedroom. But the man was very close and John's hand clenched as he stared at his flatmate. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched and John questioned just how much it would take to undo him completely.

"Then we're both exaggerating what we really are," said Sherlock and smiled. "Come on then. It's _you_ who wants to play."

"You accepted the invite."

"I thought you could use a little colour in your cheeks."

"What? By staying indoors?" asks John.

"Well, sit by the fire, then," said Sherlock and stepped back, his own suit ridiculously uncreased. "Now come on. You're not going to leave me with that lot, are you?"

"You knew they were coming."

"Yes, but the reality is somewhat horrifying."

"You put up with me."

"Not the same," said Sherlock. "You're not even slightly that annoying. Besides, Mycroft and I ensure we don't need to spend quality time."

"So is this all an elaborate scheme to torture your brother?"

"You know I'm _far_ more inventive than that," said Sherlock and gestured behind him. "Come on, they're going to kill someone and you know they'll need a doctor to verify it."

John sighed and walked out after him. "I'm not a doctor here and it won't be a real dead body."

"Then you'll be able to say he died of whatever you want," said Sherlock and winked as he reached the top of the stairs. "Come on, John. I need you."

And there lay the real problem, decided John as he followed the object of his desire downstairs. He was needed. He just didn't seem to be needed the way he wanted to be and John planned to have plenty to drink once he'd established that the hotel's dead body was dead.

At least hammered he wouldn't be able to break through the adjoined door and make a very indecent proposal.


	2. Doctor Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party discover the dead body, while John and Sherlock investigate. Time spent in a secret passage seems to do all sorts of thing to John's determination not to blurt out his attraction to Sherlock.
> 
> If only the man weren't so damned attractive!

The dead body was entirely disappointing.

It should have been the centrepiece of the room, but the misshapen lump of plastic had been dumped unceremoniously on top of the couch, one trouser leg already slack where the joints had broken. John supposed that they rarely got any gasps of indignation at the Winterbloom hotel when they revealed the victim, but he had expected something a little more dramatic. The face had a crack in the middle and at least three fingers were missing from the left hand, more likely a moving issue with a dummy than a clue. Doctor Black might well have been department model Black at some point and John wondered if there were boobs beneath the padded shirt and jacket.

He could sense Sherlock cataloging the failure next to him and a brief glance revealed the detective was even more disappointed than John. It made him feel slightly better and he nudged Sherlock.

"You didn't think it would be a real dead body?"

"I thought it might look at least a little more realistic and less store damaged," said Sherlock and rolled his eyes at Molly's gasp. "Molly, you've dealt with more corpses than anyone in this room. I hardly think this requires outcry."

"Dead bodies don't bother me," said Molly and wrinkled her nose. "It's dummies I can't stand. They're just weird. They creep me out."

"Yeah, it's a bit odd," said Lestrade and nodded toward the body. "So what do we do now? Investigate the body for clues?"

"You're a detective," said John and Lestrade grinned and gestured to his dog collar.

"Reverend," he said. "Keeping in character unless he was murdered at a church fete, I'm clueless."

"Oh! Right," said Molly and tutted at Sherlock. "You can't call me Molly, Sher- Professor. It's Miss Scarlett."

"Vivienne," said Sherlock and Molly blushed. "It's a perfectly usable forename for a young lady."

"Yes," she said eagerly and John cleared his throat.

"So we're sticking to character names?"

"Yes, colonel," said Sherlock and flicked back the sheet from the body to the feet. "Well, I think we can take it for granted that he didn't die of broken fingers and the moth balls in the wardrobe. I doubt we'll find evidence of the weapon here. I can't see our good landlady putting that kind of effort into the display."

"I don't know," said John and gestured. "Could have been the lead piping with that kind of head distortion."

Sherlock grinned. "Possibly so," he said. "Well, Colonel, your call. What do we do now?"

"You're asking me?"

"You're very observant," said Sherlock. "And capable. Hence, colonel. So please, would you take control of the investigation and we'll follow your lead."

"Right," said John and stared at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. "You want me to take charge?"

"All in character, John," said Sherlock quietly. "Go ahead, you know my methods."

"I'm not quite sure they'll work here," said John and glanced round. "Where the hell are Mrs Hudson and Mycroft?"

"Mrs Peacock and Mrs White," reminded Molly gently and John nodded. "I think she's just gone to spend a penny."

"Which one?" asked Sherlock and smirked as he turned back to John. "Mycroft is still busy running the country. We can accuse him later. Why don't we concentrate on the first clue?"

"The broken fingers?"

"The location," said Sherlock and gestured to the french windows. "A room with three possible exits suggests it was chosen carefully."

"Three?" asked John and looked round carefully before he turned back. "I can see two. Is there a secret passage?"

"Possibly," said Sherlock. "Can you find it?"

John nodded and moved to the wall, looked at the pictures and the book shelves as Molly explained behind him that she didn't like ventriloquism either and Lestrade covered the body back up. John could feel Sherlock watching him, the weight of his focus an uncanny turn on he hadn't expected here. He wanted to be good, to find the secret passage, to be able to turn back and see the pride on Sherlock's face. John refused to entertain the prospect of failure and when he didn't discover the door immediately, he closed his eyes and reviewed everything he'd learned so far.

Dust, he was sure it might feature and he lifted his hand to the painting to touch. The painting, the books resting on the shelves and none revealed anything more than a need for the landlady to make this look less authentically abandoned. John took a quick breath, looked round the room and caught Sherlock's gaze briefly. Molly and Lestrade talked openly and pleasantly and Sherlock remained silent, watching John. John drew himself up, his shoulders back and he reached out to touch the candlestick on the fireplace. It stuck and then shifted toward John and a panel creaked and moved back, revealing darkness and a low breeze.

"Well done," murmured Sherlock and John couldn't quite fight the grin. "So, do we see where it goes?"

"It looks dark," said Molly. "I might trip."

"I'd catch you," said Lestrade with a grin. "Don't worry, you'll be safe."

John cleared his throat. "That's fine. You stay here with...the reverend. The professor and I will investigate."

"I didn't mean I wouldn't," said Molly. "It's just, there's cobwebs and things."

"It's fine," said John and gestured to Sherlock. "Shall we?"

"Do you have a torch?"

"Phone," said John and flipped it on to light the passage. He took a quick breath before he stepped into the darkness and lifted the phone. The passage had been cleaned, though not recently and the breeze he had felt in the room was more pronounced inside. He shivered and stepped further in and only jumped when he felt Sherlock's breath against his neck. "Jesus," he said. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Rather against the idea of this little gathering," said Sherlock. "It's a narrow passage. Where do you think it leads?"

"You know where it goes?"

"Obviously. Where do _you_ think it goes?"

John huffed out a breath. Sherlock was very close and the sensation of his breath on the bare skin behind his ears was making him feel a little dizzy. His stomach felt tight and his balls drew up tight. There was absolutely no way John was getting an erection in the passageway just because Sherlock had chosen to forgo personal space again. He'd faced down men with guns. A man with perfect cheekbones should be easy.

"I think it leads to the conservatory," he said.

"Yes? Why?"

"Because we were in the lounge," said John. "In the game, it always leads to the conservatory."

"Ah."

"But also because there was a draft," said John. "It's the most likely place to have ill fitting windows."

"Excellent work, John," said Sherlock. "I must admit, at least this part is enjoyable."

"What? Walking through a secret passageway and battling spiderwebs?"

"The two of us," said Sherlock and John felt uncomfortably warm. "Working on a case."

"Yes. It is a made up case," said John. "I mean don't get me wrong, I quite like knowing there isn't a real madman out there killing shop dummies, but it's not the same as our usual nights out."

"It's dark, we're on what you might consider something of an adventure and you're leading the way."

"Not like normal, then," said John and chuckled as Sherlock smirked against his ear. "And back off, you're tickling me."

"It's a small passage," said Sherlock. "And you have the light."

"Oh fine," huffed John and stepped forward, bumping his nose on the blackness that had turned out to be a wall. "Fuck!"

"Are you all right?"

"I might have broken my nose."

"What on?"

"There's a wall," said John and lifted the phone again. Sherlock thrust a handkerchief into his hand and blinked at the contact and lifted it to his bloodied nose. "Might be a door."

"Possibly," said Sherlock. "There'll be a catch somewhere, or a lever."

John caught his breath as Sherlock reached between John's arm and body to touch the blackness ahead. He could feel Sherlock's body pressed up against his back and wondered if he was cursed, because Sherlock never cared if he was in John's personal space. It had wonderful connotations that John couldn't risk fantasising about and he pressed most of them into the spank bank for later consideration. It still made it very difficult for John to prevent a physical response and his trousers felt far too tight round his groin. He hadn't previously imagined them pressed up in a small space like this, preferring the expanse of a bed to explore and indulge, but John found definite advantages in this quiet.

"John, stop daydreaming and shine the light here. I think I've found something."

"Hmm?" John moved the phone and shone it over Sherlock's fingers. "Why don't you hold the phone and I'll get it?"

"I'm almost there," said Sherlock and flipped the catch. The wall swiveled quickly, dumping them both on the floor of the conservatory, Sherlock sprawled over John as it closed with a clunk. John stretched his hands out on the ground and tried very hard not to move anything else.

"You couldn't wait."

"I'll admit it turned a little earlier than I was expecting," said Sherlock and sighed, his breath warm against John's ear. "How's your nose?"

"Let me up and you can take a look."

John closed his eyes as Sherlock got to his feet and gave John enough room to stand. He wasn't shaking and his stance was careful, measured and as tightly at ease as he could manage. Sherlock stood in front of him and took the phone, lifting the light to look at John's nose. John bore it as well as he could, all that close scrutiny as Sherlock bent down and dabbed at the blood on John's upper lip.

"Not broken," he said.

"Well, it still hurts."

"Child," said Sherlock and grinned. "You were right about the conservatory, though."

"Not exactly difficult," said John and looked round. "Not that it proves anything."

"As usual, you see but fail to observe." Sherlock nodded toward the door behind him. "It proves that any one of us could have arrived in the lounge to kill the shop dummy."

"Doctor Black."

"Him too."

"But I wasn't in the conservatory and neither were you."

"We were upstairs," said Sherlock. "But the others had left the bar and could have been in any of these rooms. Mycroft was in the kitchen."

"Mr White was in the kitchen."

"Must we maintain this tedious charade while it's just the two of us?"

"But we're discussing the murder that didn't happen," said John. "It's either all or nothing."

"Fine," drawled Sherlock. "Mr White was in the kitchen checking that the ingredients for dinner wouldn't break his diet. Mrs Peacock was having a nosey at our landlady's silver while the good reverend was thinking extremely inappropriate thoughts about Miss Scarlett."

"You noticed that."

"You think I wouldn't?"

"With you I'm never sure," said John and risked touching his nose. Sherlock was right, it wasn't broken, just tender. He grinned back at Sherlock. "So we know that you and I didn't do it."

"Do we?"

"We were up in my bedroom," said John and as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he shook his head. "We were!"

"Yes, and that's the story you want to deliver, is it? That Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard couldn't possibly have committed the murder because we were in your bedroom and you were getting changed?"

"That _is_ what we were doing."

"No, John Watson was getting changed and I happened to see you there."

"You're making it sound like there were three of us," said John and cleared his throat. "All right, Colonel Mustard was unpacking and Professor Plum witnessed him doing it."

Sherlock grinned. "Really?"

"Yes," said John and ran the sentence back through his head. "That's worse, isn't it?"

"Depends if Professor Plum is your date."

"Ah," said John and cleared his throat. The conservatory was cold enough that he could see his breath, yet he felt warm and very much relieved that no-one else was around to see them. Sherlock didn't look as though he cared one way or another, so John took a deep breath and shrugged. "Oh fine, they always think we are anyway."

"Fine," said Sherlock and glanced round the room. "Although I doubt anyone used the secret passage. That door was stiff. It hadn't been used in a while."

"How often do they do these things?"

"I doubt everyone looks for the secret passageway," said Sherlock. "And this is hardly a well maintained room. Our landlady may be something of a dragon but she wouldn't allow her guests to see a room this thick with dust."

"Maybe she thinks it adds to the ambience."

"For a murder?"

"Absolutely," said John and straightened his jacket. "I should have kept my own clothes on. This is ridiculous."

"You should have worn the brown shirt," said Sherlock. "It fits you better than this monstrosity."

"It's not mine."

"Yes, and much as I hate to pass comment on your talent for blending in, you seem to have picked up something built for someone even shorter than you."

John glared. "I have absolutely no issues with my height."

"I'm aware of that."

"Yeah? Well, are you aware that I've knocked people out for attempting to make fun of my height."

"And I'm sure you were most effective," said Sherlock. "But I can assure you I'm not making fun of your height."

"Because you're not too big for me to punch in the face."

"Yes, I'm quite sure you're capable," said Sherlock. "I retract the statement."

"Good," said John and looked round at the panel in the wall. "I wonder how it opens from this side."

"I suspect it's the candlestick on the wall," said Sherlock. "A little obvious. You'd think they'd try a little harder."

"You saw the body," said John. "How much effort do you think's been paid for? And that's another thing, who _did_ invite us?"

"Does it matter?"

"Someone's pried Mycroft away from his bat-cave. Might not have made him join in properly but he's here. I don't think the Queen's got that kind of influence and you, well you wouldn't do that for anyone."

"I told you why I accepted the invitation."

"Yes," said John. "Fine. If you're not going to tell me, stuff it."

"I just don't think it's important that you know."

John pushed his tongue against his cheek and took a deep breath. "Because my opinion doesn't matter or is it-"

"John, you know full well I respect your considered opinion in some areas. Now I'm counting on you to ensure that I win."

John folded his arms. "That _you_ win?"

"Of course."

"Oh," said John and nodded before he pulled the candlestick. "Well, you don't need me for that. Mister, I-can-do-everything-on-my-own."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for John's arm before he walked away. "Of course I need you," he said and as John glared he leaned in a little closer. "I'll share the prize."

"I might beat you."

Sherlock smirked. "Really?"

"Really."

"I see," said Sherlock. "In that case, would you accept that while I am very much aware that your detective skills are second only to my own, I would prefer that we work together."

John licked over his bottom lip. "Why?"

"Because if I have to spend this entire weekend in their company then I need you more than ever."

John hesitated before he grinned. "All right."

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. "Good."

"Can we go now?"

"In a minute."

John scrubbed a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me there's something we've missed in this dismal room?"

"It's not that," said Sherlock. "It struck me that while you are aware of my reasons for being here, I haven't heard yours."

"Does it matter?" asked John.

"I'm interested."

"Wow, must be special," said John and shoved his hands in his pockets to still himself. No sense in saying anything foolish about wanting to have the opportunity to be close and to stumble into the very private life of his flatmate. He knew everything except what happened beyond Sherlock's bedroom door. For all he knew, Sherlock sneaked in people through the window and showed them the world in his bed.

Or he could have spent his nights much the same way John did. Not thinking about John, obviously, but Sherlock must have to deal with his libido at least every once in a while. For all the man claimed not to have a sex drive he indulged, John couldn't imagine living entirely without it, though he knew people did. Surely the world would not create a man with that mouth, with those hips and not let him indulge in physical desire.

Not that John intended to say any of this to Sherlock and he shrugged his shoulders. "You asked me to."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "As simple as that?"

"Why not?"

"Indeed," said Sherlock and smiled at him. "I thought you might be chasing memories. Or possibilities."

"Of what? Grumpy landladies and your brother in chef whites? Don't answer that."

Sherlock chuckled. "You've mentioned taking women away before," he said. "I thought you might be testing the water to see if you could get away with bringing one of them here."

"I like my dirty weekends a lot less complicated than this," said John. "Clean sheets and a pretty view. A good shower's appreciated, too."

"We haven't tested ours yet," said Sherlock. "I'm sure it would suffice."

"I don't think your interest in my dirty weekends is entirely healthy," said John. "But I appreciate your confidence."

"Oh come now, John. The evidence is very clear on that. It's not my confidence in you that suggests you have more illicit weekends planned. Your track record alone is impressive. Though you do seem to be going through something of a dry patch."

"And that's a _little_ too interested," said John and reached for the candlestick. "My sex life's fine."

"Good," said Sherlock and stepped into the darkness. He held a hand out for John's phone. "Your turn. You follow me."

"I can't see over your bloody shoulder."

"Then grip my jacket," said Sherlock and John took a quick breath before he reached out and settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He'd touched Sherlock so many times before, felt the firmness of the man's skin, the lithe muscle under the necessity of taking care of him. More often it was just because Sherlock was incredibly tactile. He didn't mind being touched by the right people, the right person and John felt that the implicit trust is everything that prevented him from doing anything more.

It didn't quite stop him squeezing tight when he walks behind Sherlock. It didn't stop him focusing on the back of Sherlock's neck, the mole that was barely visible in the darkness, the light from the phone illuminating and then hiding everything from John's view as they turned corners. He didn't touch Sherlock anywhere but his shoulder, didn't bump into him, though he could have done and written it off as an accident. John wouldn't cheapen what he felt, what he wanted and he allowed himself only the view when the light hit, the scent of Sherlock's skin and the knowledge that if he just kept everything else to himself, it could go on forever.

So he took a deep breath as he walked through into the lounge and let go of Sherlock reluctantly. At least Molly and Lestrade appeared to have made progress, judging by the way they jumped apart. John was clearly destined to suffer, at least where Sherlock was concerned. Instead, he treasured the wink Sherlock offered up and grinned back, barely listening until Sherlock announced that they couldn't possibly had done anything, because they'd been upstairs in Colonel Mustard's room.

At least his character was having a good time.


	3. Professor Plum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits John in the middle of the night for a spot of late night detecting. Sort of.

John was certain that the pillow was stuffed with rocks.

He'd slept in some uncomfortable beds over the years and the saving grace had often been the pillow. More than once there hadn't been a pillow at all and his pack, his jacket and often the softness of his own arm had kept his head from the ground. That was better than this, a pillow decked in functional cotton and stuffed so full it wouldn't bend.

Still, John had long made a habit of sleeping where he could. Whenever he found space, time and enough quiet that he could sleep, he got his head down. He might have left the army but some habits died harder than others and he was fast asleep, his face smushed up against the cement pillow when Sherlock bent low next to the bed and said his name.

Sherlock stretched a hand out and pressed it against John's cheek. His fingers were cold and John woke, hand out to grab Sherlock's wrist and a snarl on his lips. Sherlock gasped and John realised that he was barely a pound of pressure away from breaking his flatmate's wrist. He wrenched his fingers away and pushed himself back against the wall, his fists curled against the bedding until he could get a grip on himself.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he asked, his voice a loud whisper.

Sherlock shook his hand out and sat on the edge of the bed. "Surprising you?" he said and John rolled his eyes and sat up properly.

"I mean, what are you doing here now?" he asked and reached for his watch. He groaned at the dial. "It's nearly three in the morning, Sherlock. We're supposed to relax."

"It's a murder investigation, John. How relaxing do you imagine that is?"

"I don't have to imagine," said John and ran a hand back through his hair. "Besides, all we have to do is work out which of the six of us killed the dummy and we've won. I doubt the others are losing much sleep over it."

"Mrs Hudson isn't," said Sherlock. "I can hear her snoring loud and clear."

"She's got the room beneath you?" asked John and frowned before he glanced at the floor cautiously. "Who's under me?"

"No one," grinned Sherlock. "Mycroft doesn't sleep unless forced to. He's busying himself in the kitchen, making a midnight snack."

"Good for Mycroft," said John and pulled his tshirt away from his body where he'd grown sticky. "All right, so other people otherwise occupied. You still haven't told me why you're here."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Well, I have a theory."

"You do."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Given that this is a random selection of guests who would never meet under other circumstances and that the victim was unlikely to be in any of their company, I can only conclude that he did it himself, by smothering himself."

John stared. "Not an option."

"Not a _convenient_ option," said Sherlock. "The effort it would take to starve oneself is considerable, however since he is a doctor and therefore capable of wedging himself in the appropriate position so that he couldn't breathe once he'd lost consciousness, it is entirely plausible that he could have done so."

"He didn't kill himself."

"How do you know?"

"Because he didn't," said John. "The victim can't kill himself in Cluedo. It's impossible! You wouldn't be able to win the game. It _has_ to be someone else."

Sherlock sighed and scrubbed a hand back through his hair. John had seen that set of pajamas before but didn't know he slept in them. He wasn't always sure that Sherlock actually slept unless exhausted. Like so many things, Sherlock tended to attend to his body when necessary rather than by design. John fed him when he could, but it would take a full time carer to ensure Sherlock did all the things most people took for granted. A full time carer with a gun, possibly.

His pajamas were rumpled, the cotton clinging to his chest and stomach where he'd clearly spent some time lying down. His pajama bottoms were hitched up where he was half sitting on the bed, one ankle bared and Sherlock's toes wiggled against the bedspread. John's fingertips itched to reach out and touch and he clutched absently at the pillow instead. There were circles beneath Sherlock's eyes and his hair was more out of control than usual, curls sticking out on one side and pressed tight to his head on the other. The man had clearly had some sleep before his mind had woken him and insisted on this answer.

John had previously dreamed of Sherlock coming to him in the middle of the night. Those dreams might have started with Sherlock leaning in close and whispering John's name, but there were rarely deductions and instead concentrated on Sherlock demanding and stripping, his lean frame covering John's own. John, naturally assertive and a strong physical lover, had dreamed of being lusted after, of being worshipped, his body kissed and licked and sucked until he'd woken on several occasions with messy pajamas to deal with. He'd thought those times were long since over, but John had come in sleep with alarming regularity following a Sherlock dream and he'd adjusted by taking on the laundry as well as the shopping.

He hadn't been dreaming of Sherlock when he'd arrived this evening. John had been fast asleep, his head full of nothing until Sherlock insisted it became full of something. He hadn't been hard in his sleep, yet he could feel the blood in his dick, swelling and becoming firmer as all things about Sherlock's appearance slotted into place. Sherlock was sitting in his bed. Sherlock was wearing pajamas. Sherlock looked delightfully rumpled, kissable and moreover untouchable to John.

John's dick stood no chance of remaining impassive.

He shifted his weight on the bed and reached for the solid pillow to rest lightly over his hip. "So was there anything else?"

"It's not possible it could be anyone else," said Sherlock. "Nothing else fits the facts."

"Yes, well this wasn't a proper crime, Sherlock. It was fitted together by someone who thinks that this," said John and gestured absently to the pillow, "is the ultimate in luxury bedding. She's hardly the sort of woman who could come up with adequate forensic evidence."

"Then she should try harder," said Sherlock. "How am I supposed to apply method if I'm faced with inferior criminals?"

"That supper was criminal," muttered John. "The gravy was lumpy."

"It's just pointless," said Sherlock. "People cannot expect to be taken seriously when they don't make an effort."

"And the potatoes were solid," said John. "Probably what's in the pillow."

"It's just not good enough," said Sherlock and picked up John's pillow, ignoring John's grabbing hands. "It's down."

"Down would make it soft," said John and leaned forward, the bottom of his tshirt grazing the front of his pajamas. He doubted he could really hide anything if Sherlock looked, but Sherlock never looks and John almost feels safe. "Not like this."

"It's overstuffed," said Sherlock and stood up, taking the pillow with him. "You can have mine. We'll swap."

"No," said John. "It's fine."

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "You need your rest. You're grouchy in the morning as it is. You'll be terrible without your sleep."

"You mean I should probably avoid nutters walking in my bedroom in the middle of the night and waking me up?"

"Yes," said Sherlock and grinned. "Oh come on, you can't possibly say you prefer I stay away? I needed your input."

John licked over his bottom lip and nodded. "I'd sleep better."

"Sleep is overrated," said Sherlock. "For me, obviously. And you'll have plenty of time to lie in. Apparently, Lestrade will be taking a walk with Molly. He plans to show her something of the countryside."

"Is that what he's calling it," said John and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He's quite taken with her."

"So it would appear," said Sherlock. "And it's reciprocated."

He sighed heavily and John forced himself to count to three before he stood up and laid a hand on Sherlock's bare arm. Minutes ago he'd almost snapped it, but his touch was light and the feel of Sherlock's skin beneath his palm and fingertips made him shiver. Even the hairs on Sherlock's forearm made John want to growl. His dick stood up straighter, stiff against his belly and he was grateful for the scant cover his tshirt offered. "Does it bother you?"

"What?" asked Sherlock and John cleared his throat.

"If they get together," he said. "I mean, I didn't think you were in any way... I thought you only flirted with her to get what you wanted? I didn't think you meant anything by it."

"I don't mean anything by it," said Sherlock and frowned at John. "Molly is a valuable asset."

John stared and dropped his hand. "Yes," he said and ran his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I see."

"Oh?" asked Sherlock. "What do you see?"

"That you're selfish," said John. "It's not news. God knows it's not news, but there I was, thinking that perhaps you had an actual emotion, a feeling about someone else and it's not that at all. It's how it would inconvenience you if Molly got an actual boyfriend who liked her."

"Are you done?"

"No," said John. "Because it's not him liking her, it's her liking him. You're thinking that it'd be inconvenient if she likes anyone more than you." He shook his head. "Sometimes, you're a real dick."

Sherlock stared at him and then leaned forward, one hand on John's shoulder. "Only sometimes, John? I would have thought it more common than that."

John giggled in spite of his own annoyance and turned his head. Sherlock was far too close for his comfort and he didn't intend to let the man get away with acting like a child when he'd woken John up. His bedroom should at least be off limits for John's sanity and he cleared his throat and reached for his pillow again. "Fine, all right. Go to bed and I'll see you in the morning."

"In a minute," said Sherlock and refused to relinquish the pillow. "Look, why don't we go downstairs and take another look at the body. Perhaps there's something you've missed."

"That I've missed?" asked John and took a quick breath. "No, I'm not going downstairs. I'm going to bed. We're supposed to spend tomorrow working out who dunnit."

"We already know who did it."

"Well, I know it isn't Doctor Black, even if he is a plastic dummy," said John and yanked the pillow away. He dropped it on the bed and looked back at Sherlock again. "Will you go back to bed if I take another peek at the body?"

"I'll let you sleep."

"Fine," said John and strode to the door and gestured. "After you."

Sherlock grinned at him and walked through. "I have every confidence you'll work this out."

John paused. "This is for my benefit?"

"I've already solved the crime," said Sherlock. "But you need to come to your own conclusions."

"But I don't want to come to my own conclusions," said John. "I don't care if I figure out who killed the shop dummy. I just want to get bed and get some sleep and if that's the only reason we're heading downstairs then forget it."

He turned on the stairs and stopped dead when Sherlock laid a hand on his side. On his side, not his arm and John couldn't move if anyone pushed him. Sherlock was touching him and John melted. He could feel the pressure of Sherlock's fingers on his skin, the tshirt thin enough to make John tremble. He should push Sherlock away, should tell him to stuff it again and take himself back to bed. Alone. He should do that, but John couldn't catch his breath and couldn't speak and instead he stared down at Sherlock's fingers.

"You should do this," said Sherlock and John turned his head, his mouth closed tight and his hand clenched again. "You'll beat them all."

John cleared his throat. "I don't need to."

"You'll beat Mycroft."

"Mycroft probably engineered the entire thing and has paid off anyone who already knew he did it," said John. "I just want my bed and you to get your damn hand off me!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and lifted his hand away. "You might want to lower your voice, unless you want everyone to join us."

"I don't care," hissed John. "I want-"

Sherlock stepped up closer and covered John's mouth with his hand. "I don't want everyone to join us."

John frowned and lifted his hand to tug at Sherlock's. "I don't know why you're insisting on this."

"Because you need to do it."

"I really don't."

"I need you to do it."

"Why?" asked John. "Why does it matter to you? You already know you're brilliant. You already know Mycroft's brilliant and I'm-"

Sherlock leaned in quickly and kissed him. John blinked at the contact, the sudden pressure of soft lips against his own and the urgent kiss that Sherlock offered. He barely had a moment to lick his lip when Sherlock pulled back again and John stared at him blankly.

"Brilliant," offered Sherlock and smiled. "Now come down to see the body."

Sherlock reached for John's hand and John followed willingly, his palm hot against Sherlock's own. His feet moved of their own accord and he stared at the back of Sherlock's head when the man walked him through to the lounge again. He almost tripped over the edge of the rug and when Sherlock turned to beam at him, John swung his fist hard and connected with Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock stumbled backward as John stepped up. "You bloody arse!"

"John?" asked Sherlock and touched his hand to his jaw. "What was-"

John reached for Sherlock's tshirt and bunched it between his fingers. He tugged until the man was close to his face and could feel Sherlock's breath against his face. The man looked genuinely stunned and John could still taste his kiss. "How dare you," he said and Sherlock's expression turned vaguely troubled. "How dare you kiss me!"

"I didn't think you'd object," said Sherlock and frowned at John. "I misread signals. I do apologise."

"Signals?" asked John. "I'm not giving any sodding signals. I haven't given any. I don't do that."

"You do," said Sherlock and settled his hands over John's so he could pull back. "I've been politely ignoring them, but then I'm not particularly polite and you didn't act when I thought you would."

"Didn't act?" said John. "On what? You demanding I come downstairs and solve this silliness?"

"I woke you in the night," said Sherlock. "Our characters are intimate. I brought you to a crime scene in the dark, just the two of us. I thought at the very least you would indulge yourself slightly, I offered as much as I could and still you wouldn't do anything."

"Like what?" asked John and stared at his flatmate. "Like kiss you?"

"Like kiss me," said Sherlock. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Not bad," said John. "Of course it wasn't bad."

"I wondered," said Sherlock. "Because of the punch."

"You surprised me!"

"You don't usually surprise people with a kiss," said John and breathed out hard. "Well, people do."

"As you say."

"But you're not people," said John. "You're just not. You're Sherlock. You don't do the same sorts of things other people do. I count on you not doing things other people do."

"Like solve crimes?"

"Absolutely."

"But not surprise people?"

"Surprising people, fine," said John. "But kissing me?" He took a quick breath and kept hold of Sherlock's tshirt. "You've never done that before."

"You've never looked as though you needed it that much," said Sherlock and cleared his throat. "John, much as I would like to explain myself, I'd rather not do so here. Why don't we go to the kitchen and you can make tea?"

"I thought Mycroft was there."

"Good point," said Sherlock and glanced round before he picked up a bottle from the sideboard. He snagged a couple of glasses and John rolled his eyes. "Back to bed?"

"No," said John.

"Really? And you were so keen to get there."

"Neutral territory," said John. "Bed's too...suggestive."

"A hard surface is suggestive. I mean, that sofa is just as convenient," said Sherlock and sighed before he pushed the dead body to one side and sat down. He poured what turned out to be a reasonable whiskey into the glass and proffered one to John. John took the glass and perched on the edge of the chair opposite. He took a long swallow and looked back at Sherlock again.

"I'm not gay."

"Right," said Sherlock and licked over his bottom lip as he took a drink. "And that's still standing, is it?"

"One kiss doesn't make you gay."

"No, one kiss doesn't. Fancying your flatmate is suggestive."

"I never said I fancied you," said John and frowned, drank and held the glass out for a top up. "Okay, we're really talking about this."

"Apparently so," said Sherlock and leaned forward. "John, if you're genuinely not comfortable talking about this-"

"I'll manage."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Because I _do_ want to talk about this."

"And you always win."

"Most of the time," said Sherlock. "But, in this case I want to talk about this without you walking away in a mood."

"You want to talk about our feelings," said John and Sherlock stared at him. "Sorry, thought this was descending into a rom com."

"Hardly," said Sherlock. "My feelings are perfectly clear and yours are understood, if subdued. No, I wanted to talk about what you would like to do about it."

John cleared his glass and held it out again. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I'm still a little stunned that we're talking about this."

"And how long will you remain stunned?"

"How long have you got?"

"Maybe until four. I doubt you'll stay awake beyond then."

"I'm good like that."

Sherlock grinned and took another drink. He filled his glass and looked back at John. "I had hoped you might come to me," he said and John raised his eyebrows. "In the night. You haven't visited at home but here, well, I thought you may have made some feeble excuse to come to me."

"What? Like, 'come and see my dead body, it's really cool,'" said John.

"Something like that."

John grinned, the whiskey sloshing pleasantly in his system. "And I thought romance was dead."

"This isn't romance, this is practicalities," said Sherlock. "You want me. I want you."

"Oh?" asked John and took another drink. He couldn't quite avoid the grin and watched Sherlock over the top of the glass. "For what?"

Sherlock stared at him, drank and rested an elbow on top of the dummy's head. "Don't be obtuse."

"I'm curious," said John. "Practicalities of what? Are we talking about just kissing or-"

"I'm talking about sex."

"Excellent," said John and reached for the bottle. "Well, so long as we're clear."

"Yes," said Sherlock and finished his drink. He pinched the bottle from John and took a slow breath. "Are you trying to get drunk to avoid the question?"

"No," said John. "I'm getting drunk because we're on holiday and we're in a hotel and I'm not paying for this." He grinned at Sherlock. "And I'm not having sex with you because it's practical."

Sherlock frowned. "But you will have sex with me."

"Maybe," said John. "It depends, you see. Because romance isn't dead for me. I like to be," he paused and licked his lip. "Seduced."

"Ah," said Sherlock and leaned forward. He set his hand on John's knee and squeezed lightly. "So telling you I'd like to do you over the back of the sofa isn't doing it?"

"It's doing something," conceded John and stood up with some effort. He patted Sherlock on the shoulder and headed to the door. "It'd do more if I wasn't falling asleep."

Sherlock turned to watch John open the door. "So it's timing?"

"Maybe," said John and raised the glass. "Maybe I'm dreaming."

He took two steps closer to the sofa and bent to press his mouth to Sherlock's. He could taste the whiskey, could feel the soft bottom lip that pushed against his own and John Watson thought that actually kissing Sherlock was better than dreaming about it. He grinned against Sherlock's mouth and drew back slowly. He set the glass down on the side and stepped back to the door. "Maybe not."

"You could stay down here and find out," said Sherlock and John shook his head.

"I'm going to bed," he said. "Don't wake me up."

"Not even to surprise you?"

"Especially not," said John and walked into the hall. "Only if there's a fire alarm."

As he walked upstairs, John considered the chances that Sherlock was busy setting the dummy on fire. He grinned, headed back to his bed and closed his eyes tight. 

Practicalities be damned. John yawned and slept while he waited for Sherlock's idea of seduction.


	4. Colonel Mustard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fails entirely to seduce John when he wakes up so John takes a walk in the rain.
> 
> There is thunder. There is lightning. There is smut.

The tap on the door was timid and John was disappointed the moment he opened his eyes.

He'd slept soundly since his middle of the night adventure. On waking he wasn't entirely sure he'd been downstairs at all, but he could remember kissing Sherlock more clearly than any of his dreams would allow. There was the added fact that his dream wouldn't have ended with kissing and that John wouldn't have gone to bed alone, or at least would have woken up seduced and enjoying it.

Instead, Molly walked in the room, last night's red dress replaced by a slightly less seductive but still scarlet jumper and a pair of jeans that she'd clearly owned for some years. Molly stuck to the theme better than John and she smiled at him as she walked over with a steaming mug of tea and a small plate of toast. "I was worried you might miss breakfast," she said as John sat up and rubbed a hand back through his hair. "There's still food downstairs, but I think everyone else has finished."

"Even Mycroft?"

"I think he had something specially made," she said and sat on the little chair opposite to John. "I think everyone's forgotten about the game."

"You haven't." said John and sipped at the tea. "Thanks for this. I never get breakfast in bed."

"Me either," she said and he grinned at her. "Mrs Cartright says there'll be more clues after lunch. Apparently the man who usually sets things up has gone to borrow a ladder so he can fix the chimney and won't be back until then."

"I guess things work much slower in the country," said John and eats his toast. "Was Sherlock at breakfast?"

"He just drank coffee," she said. "He said he had something to do and left." She looked at John shyly. "I thought you'd gone with him, but here you are."

"Here I am," said John and set his breakfast to one side. "Aren't you going on a hike with Greg?"

Molly's blush was pretty and John liked seeing it. Happiness should be treasured wherever you could find it and he hoped Greg knew what he was doing. Molly might have wanted to be something more to Sherlock for longer than John had known him, but they both knew that Sherlock wasn't interested in her. Her attraction to him marked her out as easily manipulated and it didn't matter that she was aware of it. Molly would do anything for him despite that knowledge and John liked her. He liked strong women and beneath the girlish cardigans he was sure that she was a rock someone could build on.

Besides, they both shared unrequited desire. On that level John felt they were the same, even if she wasn't aware of that side of things. Her kindness was valuable and John respected that too. On instinct he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Hope you enjoy yourself, Molly."

"Oh," she said and pressed her fingers to her face. "I will. You too, John. Ooh. I mean, Colonel."

"I think you're safe in here without code names," he said and stood up. "I might go for a walk myself."

"You could join us?" she offered and John decided that kind streak could do with tempering some, especially when it was in her best interests.

"Nah, you go off, have fun," he said and she nodded and headed to the door. Molly turned back, hand on the frame as she bit her lip.

"He isn't like other people," she said and John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock. I mean he says things you shouldn't, but he can do things..." Molly paused and looked back at John. "I don't take it personally. In case you were worried about that. He's like that with almost everyone, except you."

"Oh, he's like that with me, too," said John and she shrugged.

"He's not," she said. "And you know it."

John took a quick breath and then nodded. "It's different," he said. "We're flatmates."

"Right," she said and stepped back. "He said you needed a lie in."

"Good," said John and smiled at her. "I did. Go on. I'll be fine."

She left and John stared at the door until he could make himself move. Whether last night had happened or if John's particularly vivid imagination had filled in some detail, he couldn't do anything about it now. He'd told Sherlock what he wanted, or rather what it took to get John into bed and John woke alone, un-seduced and unattached. A walk might very well do him some good and at least would get him outside and in the fresh air. He wouldn't be following Sherlock's lead and possibly he could clear his head.

Sherlock couldn't haunt every last aspect of his life. John had lived before Sherlock arrived on the scene. Admittedly he had struggled to find anything interesting to do once war was no longer a possibility, but he had functioned, had met and made connections with people. None of them had been as intense as the one he shared with Sherlock. Even the ones that had resulted in shared body fluid had been less meaningful than the way he felt at 221b. Sherlock filled every space, as though the world itself molded round his body and mind.

Sherlock's mind palace was a place John was forbidden, but he found himself imagining it all the same. Surely with its palatial expanse, there could have been room for John Watson? Perhaps there actually was, but John was certain it was a neatly filed area with the details Sherlock wanted to know filed away tidily. John knew he held a place of affection, or something like it, in Sherlock's heart. He knew it and he relished being even that important to the man. He liked it and once he'd accepted that he was physically attracted as well, John had made the choice. Better to be Sherlock's friend than a rejected lover.

He'd lived with it and last night Sherlock had suggested something more. He'd suggested so many of the things that kept John up at night, hot and sticky, his straining erection in hand. Sherlock had wanted sex with someone he trusted, someone he clearly liked and John couldn't help wondering if John ticked enough boxes to be convenient. He might have been, had he said yes. Instead he'd mentioned romance and John had woken alone. Sherlock must have decided something other than a physical relationship would be better and John told himself that little had changed. They'd acknowledged a physical attraction and that was it.

He'd been attracted to people before and managed to be friends of a sort, but this was the first time it had been with a man. John wrapped up warm and headed out, determined to walk off any real disappointment so he could get back to life the way he liked it.

The Cotswolds offered pretty scenery in the Summer, but in the late Autumn it was damp and a light mist ghosted the flora at his feet. He could see several paths ahead, but took the one that would tax his leg the least and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. If Mrs Cartright had really wanted to build atmosphere she should have sent them all out here. John grinned at the thought and wished he'd brought a hat as well. The sun seemed to be a fuzzy yellow in the distance, pale through the grey clouds and promise of more rain.

He was grateful for his boots, the lining snug against his feet as he walked and John kept an eye out for Lestrade and Molly. He suspected Lestrade had taken her somewhere scenic, somewhere a man could impress a woman. John had done the same sort of thing himself, several times, but couldn't quite picture doing the same thing with Sherlock. He'd be better taking Sherlock to the scene of an old murder than showing him some picturesque landscape. He wouldn't get the same reaction, but he'd be pleased all the same. John hoped Lestrade was getting himself good and snogged with such effort. At least someone ought to be getting lucky from this weekend.

He pushed his hands deeper in his pockets as he ducked down beneath a low hanging tree branch. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the background and he could sense the air changing. The first drops of rain hit as he got further into the shade of the trees and he liked the fresh smell, the pitter patter of rain drops on the branches and the steam that lifted from the grass beneath his feet. He leaned back against the trunk and closed his eyes, reveled in the quietness, a place where he was neither Doctor, nor Captain, just John. He' wasn't even Sherlock's blogger in that moment and he sighed deeply and held onto the peace.

His new life broke it quickly.

"You do realise your chances of being struck by lightning have increased?"

John grinned and opened his eyes as Sherlock pushed back a dripping branch and entered the shelter of the  trees. "Because you're here?" he asked. "Besides, I've got rubber soled boots. Unlike you. They're hardly walking wear."

"I walk _in_ them," said Sherlock and stepped forward. He slipped on wet leaves and John laughed loudly. "I'm fine, thank you."

"You're welcome," said John and stayed put as Sherlock drew closer. "Molly said you'd gone out."

"I had work to do," said Sherlock and waved a hand at John's raised eyebrow. "A small matter. Mrs Cartright's handyman is apparently responsible for a number of petty thefts. Mrs Hudson reported her earrings were missing at the breakfast table and they've now been restored."

John nodded, impressed and then chuckled. "So I take it he hasn't gone to get a ladder?"

"Why would he need a ladder?"

"Oh, something Molly said." John grinned at Sherlock. "Does that mean our game is off?"

"Not until you work out who killed Doctor Black," said Sherlock and stepped closer, his feet carefully placed on the ground. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," said John. "No fire drills. I was sort of disappointed."

"You asked me to refrain."

"Yeah, but you did," said John. "I was surprised."

"Now that I have a knack for," said Sherlock and cleared his throat as he closed the distance between them. The rain bounced above their heads and John could hear a rumble of thunder, closer than before. "John," said Sherlock. "I may have made a slight miscalculation. Very slight, you understand, but it is an issue to be addressed."

"Is this to do with Doctor Black?" asked John innocently. "Because I told you-"

"Us," said Sherlock and reached out, his gloved hand stroking the length of John's lapel. "I wouldn't risk your friendship."

"Good to know."

"But that doesn't mean I'm content with it," said Sherlock.

John folded his arms. "Tell me about the mistake."

"Miscalculation."

"Whatever," said John. "You said you'd made one."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "I assumed you'd be interested in being friends with the benefit of sex."

John nodded slowly. "You might be right."

"I am?" asked Sherlock and John watched him smile. "Well, in that case-"

John lifted a hand up and pressed it against Sherlock's chest as the man leaned in. "You were right," he said. "I thought that was what I wanted, but when it came down to it, I can't make that disconnect."

"Between friendship and sex?"

"Pretty much," said John. "I mean God knows how many people already think I'm your boyfriend or whatever, but I don't want to be what you do when you're bored."

"I'm not bored now," said Sherlock. "And I would still very much like to have sex with you."

John held himself still, his feet braced against the ground as he looked up at Sherlock. "Here?"

"Anywhere," said Sherlock. "Everywhere seems something of a challenge, but yes, I would very much like to have sex with you."

"Right," said John and reached out, his hands sliding up Sherlock's coat until he could reach the collar where Sherlock had turned it up. He ran his thumbs over the edge of the material and tugged hard until Sherlock was close enough to kiss. Sherlock licked over his bottom lip and John stroked his thumb over the line of Sherlock's jaw, touching where the bone was firm and where his chin tucked in, skin flesh and delicate as it drew down toward his throat. Sherlock's eyes were clear, eloquent in their desire and John relished the way the detective waited for John to make some move.

John drew his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip and tugged harder on his collar. He was distantly aware of Sherlock's hands on his waist, of Sherlock standing between his spread thighs, their bodies not touching, but close. Sherlock was John's temptation, John's living embodiment of everything dangerous and he had leaped and indulged in all of it except this. He tugged at Sherlock's lip until he opened his mouth, his tongue pink and inviting. John licked his lip and leaned forward slightly, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's own slowly. His tongue touched Sherlock's bottom lip, licked slowly until he could get the taste of the man in his mouth, in his memory and John could feel the low rumble of his breathing as Sherlock started to kiss him back.

The thunder sounded closer, an echo in John's ears as he kept a grip on Sherlock's collar and kept the man close. He sucked at Sherlock's lips, his tongue tracing patterns, coaxing Sherlock's into his own mouth. John could feel faint stubble against his cheek, the brush of Sherlock's nose against his cheek and he turned his head to deepen the kiss. Everything about the way he looked said that Sherlock was a statue, untouchable and only to be admired, but to touch him was to melt the illusion and John kissed him until he was breathless.

John drew back as the rain grew louder, a flash of lightning outside the trees. Sherlock had closed his eyes sometime during the kiss and John had rarely seen him this vulnerable. He licked his bottom lip and dropped a hand from his collar, tugged at Sherlock's coat until it was open. John unfastened Sherlock's jacket and brushed against Sherlock's belly, the cotton of his shirt silky against John's fingertips. He heard Sherlock catch his breath as John slid his fingers beneath Sherlock's belt and the detective opened his eyes.

"John," he drawled and licked his lip, clearly tasting John's kiss. "Is this a yes?"

John ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth and let go of Sherlock entirely. He unfastened his jeans and pushed them roughly to his hips, his underpants sliding down with them, exposing the thick length of his erection. He licked over his bottom lip as he looked at Sherlock and John slid his hand around his dick. "I wanted to be seduced."

"I know," said Sherlock and reached a hand out. John batted it away and John swallowed. "I had a plan."

"Was it good?" asked John and slowly worked his fingers along his dick. He slid his foreskin up and over the head before he drew it down again. Sherlock swallowed hard and John grinned. "Your plan. Was it a good plan?"

"It required work," said Sherlock and lifted his hand again. "Are you going to let me touch you?"

John raised an eyebrow and spread his legs a little wider. "Actually, I'm going to let you suck me," he said. "If you want to."

"I want to," said Sherlock quickly and dropped to his knees, his coat spreading wide on the damp ground as he reached out for John's hips. He bent close and John kept his dick away from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked up and John clearly read the desire in his gaze. "Let me."

"And then what?" asked John. "Just sex?"

"Just us," said Sherlock. "Sex, the work." He turned back to John's dick and leaned closer, his breath warm enough to make John's erection jump. "Everything the same."

"Hmm," said John and offered the head of his dick to Sherlock. "I'm not sure everything the same will work."

"What?" asked Sherlock and swirled the tip of his tongue over the head of John's dick. "We'll still be us."

"Well, yeah," said John. "I mean I'll just be John Watson and you'll be Sherlock Holmes and people will still say we're a couple."

Sherlock paused and looked up, his eyes fixed on John's face. "You'll stop denying it?"

"You'll start confirming it?"

Sherlock slid his hands round the firm but decidedly chilly cheeks of John's bare arse and squeezed. "To everyone?"

John rolled his eyes and reached down, one hand in Sherlock's hair as he ran his fingers slowly through the strands. His hair was slightly damp and the man still wore his scarf. It brushed against John's bare thighs as Sherlock leaned in again and swallowed him up whole. John dropped his head back against the trunk and gripped Sherlock's hair tighter. He had no idea how much experience Sherlock had. The man might never have delivered a blow job before, but he could become an expert in anything given a moment to research.

He closed his eyes and gave in, offering up his surrender and slid both his hands into Sherlock's hair. He could feel the slow pull and suck of the man's mouth and John rested his head against the tree as he slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He growled, his fingertips touching Sherlock's scalp and he couldn't help tugging to bring him closer. John could feel the long fingers clutching his arse, pulling at him until John's dick sank deeper into Sherlock's mouth.

John could feel the slide of tongue pushing at his foreskin, at the frenulum and the suction of those lush lips as they closed round him over and over. His balls drew up tight, the sac brushed against Sherlock's chin and John could feel his erection jump again. John dropped his head forward and risked looking down at the top of Sherlock's head. He wasn't prepared to see Sherlock looking back up at him. John caught his breath and the suction was unbelievable. The connection between them too much and John barely gasped Sherlock's name before he spilled, barely audible above the heavy rain above them.

He watched Sherlock swallow, the line of his neck as he took in every last drop John offered. Sherlock slid back slowly, let the head of John's dick rest against his lip before he drew away completely. He slid his hands to John's jeans and pulled them up. John watched Sherlock fasten his jeans again and waited until he looked back at John's face. He leaned in and kissed him, tasted Sherlock's kiss and the remnants of his orgasm. John lifted a hand to Sherlock's cheek, slid his hand round the man's waist beneath his coat and sucked at his tongue.

He pulled back and stared at Sherlock. "If I solve the murder?"

"I'll confirm it to anyone you like," said Sherlock and smiled at John. "You taste remarkably good."

"Your mouth's amazing."

"You've said that before."

"I've said you were amazing," said John. "You never had your mouth round my dick before."

Sherlock smirked. "A talent then?"

"Definitely," said John and licked his lip. "All right."

"All right, what?"

John grinned and leaned in to kiss him. "Let's solve your bloody mystery then."


	5. Mrs White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to get on with his investigation into the murder of Doctor Black. He starts with Mycroft with some vague assistance from Sherlock.
> 
> Then they get in a storage closet. Because why not.

Tying Mycroft to the kitchen chair hadn't been John's idea, but he was perfectly fine with it.

The table had been cleared of the cake mix and other ingredients Mycroft had been working on, but the surface was still floury and John's cuff was dusted with it. John sat on a creaky chair opposite to Mycroft and Sherlock's bright lamp flourish looked out of place in the cosy kitchen. The light picked up the white in Mycroft's clothes and John concentrated on the smudge of flour on his cheek. Every effort Sherlock put into his chemical experiments was echoed here. John wondered if it would be better if Sherlock's experiments ended in cake rather than a smelly and untidy kitchen. His waistline would definitely suffer.

"Is this necessary?" asked Mycroft politely. "I'll answer your questions."

"Not necessary, no," said John and made no move to untie him. "Where were you when Doctor Black was murdered?"

"No," said Mycroft. "Wrong question."

"It's my question," said John. "And you'll answer it."

Mycroft sighed. "Then I'll have to answer, when was that, colonel?"

John winced slightly. "Seven last night."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Ah," said Mycroft. "Because you've examined the evidence and established your medical opinion of time of death?"

"Yes."

"On a shop dummy. Interesting," said Mycroft. "Well, in that case, colonel, I was in here."

"Doing what?"

"Why, preparing dinner," said Mycroft evenly. "As every good cook does."

John sat back and watched Mycroft as the man smiled. Smug was an overused adjective when John thought about Sherlock's brother, but in his own mind bungalow, it was emblazoned across the door Mycroft-shaped information lived behind. Smug wouldn't answer his questions and John leaned forward, both his elbows in the flour as he met Mycroft's gaze easily. "Not stabbing the doctor?"

"He wasn't stabbed," said Mycroft. "He was strangled."

"How do you know that?" asked John. "We haven't had the next set of clues."

"Mrs Cartright's method of storing documents is hardly secure," said Mycroft. "Do you know what _you_ were doing, colonel?"

"Yes," said John firmly and kept his chin up. "And since I would like that to continue, I'm questioning you."

"Oh really," said Mycroft and nodded before he straightened up some in his chair. The ropes were tight round his arms but he hadn't so much as struggled. Sherlock was rather more expert in tying someone up than John had expected, though in this case John wondered whether there was a childhood game they'd played when Mycroft's indulgence had been less bureaucratic. He found it hard to imagine Sherlock and Mycroft as children, but suspected this wasn't the first time it had happened. This entire thing was childish, but the benefits were more adult and far more satisfying and Sherlock was due back shortly. John intended to get at least one answer from Mycroft before then.

"In that case, doctor, I knew he had been strangled because the good professor mentioned the livid marks on his throat. I assume you're aware of the props one uses in this game? I do hope I'm not contaminating the evidence."

"You're staying tied up," said John and brushed the flour from his jacket as best he could. "What were you making here?"

Mycroft smiled. "I _was_ attempting to make a cake," he said.

"I didn't know you baked."

"It soothes me," said Mycroft. "And the reception is excellent in here."

"You're still working?"

"Of course," said Mycroft. "As much as I'm willing to indulge in the occasional getaway, there's no reason to remain out of contact. This is hardly isolation, John."

John nodded and turned as the door opened and Sherlock walked inside. "Did you get what you wanted?"

"Some of it," said Sherlock and pulled his gloves off. "Has he offered you his chiffon cake, yet?"

"Nope."

"Shame," said Sherlock. "Mycroft's baking is excellent. He put on weekly tea parties when we were younger."

John shook his head. "I didn't need that image."

"And wonderful birthday cakes," said Sherlock as he pulled his scarf loose. "And that's far too complimentary for me. How's the killer?"

"He hasn't been charged," said John. "He was in here. I don't think he's the killer."

"How kind," said Mycroft and John raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not kind. He's covered in flour," said John. "And he baked last night as well. I doubt Mrs Cartright's capable of making baklava and that was definitely home made. If White had done it, there'd be far more physical evidence than we saw in the lounge. He might have cleared up most of it, but flour gets everywhere."

Sherlock settled a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. "So Mycroft's out."

"It seems so," said John and gestured. "Go on, you can untie him now."

Sherlock sighed. "Must I?"

"The baklava was tasty," said John. "And I like cake."

"Oh very well," said Sherlock and walked over. "Though honestly, I'm not sure your stomach should make your decisions."

"It's not making yours," said Mycroft and winced as Sherlock tugged unnecessarily hard on a knot. "Perhaps you should change your trousers next time you feel the urge to kneel down?"

John leaned to look, and there was indeed a dark patch on the navy trousers Sherlock was wearing. Noticeable, but only if you really looked. He doubted anyone else had picked up on it, but then he came away from every exchange with Mycroft certain that he'd been deduced and by someone who didn't particularly care for him. He didn't expect anything else and Mycroft no longer unnerved him, but John always felt happier when Mycroft time was filed away and he could move without worrying about what he revealed by doing so.

Sherlock wound the rope back up in his fingers and turned to John. "Who do you want to question next?"

"Mrs Hudson," said John. "You won't need that."

"Perhaps a scone," said Mycroft as he got back to his feet and dusted off his jacket. "I believe there's some jam in the cupboard and-"

"Yes, thank you Mycroft," said Sherlock and reached for John's arm to draw him out of the room. "We can handle this."

"Of course," said Mycroft. "If you need my assistance, you know where I am."

"We'll be fine," said John and followed Sherlock into the hallway. He grinned as Sherlock shut the door and pressed John back against the wall, his mouth hot and his tongue tantalising as he licked John's bottom lip. John banged his head as he drew back from the kiss and raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were looking for an exit route for the killer?"

"This is your investigation," said Sherlock. "And there isn't one. The killer's still inside the house."

John lifted his hand to push Sherlock's hair back from his temple and leaned in, pressed his lips against the pulse in Sherlock's throat. He could taste salt where the man had sweated beneath his scarf and ran the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's skin. He could feel the rumble beneath Sherlock's chest, some form of a growl that made John's start to stiffen in his trousers. He kissed his way along the line of Sherlock's throat and between the open collar of his shirt. The hollow there required a kiss and he smiled as he felt Sherlock's hands tighten on his upper arms, the rope dropped to the floor.

John lifted his head and glanced round. The hallway was empty but Mycroft was close by and there was no accounting for where anyone else was. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him into the hall closet, knocking a brush to one side before he could close the door behind them. Sherlock cleared his throat as John fumbled for the light switch and the bare bulb above his head swung when Sherlock knocked it. Sherlock glanced up at the bulb and back at John.

"You have the choice of two bedrooms, two floors away and yet you choose here. Why?"

"Um, you're irresistible?" asked John and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right. You tell me."

Sherlock ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and looked back at John directly. "You don't want to go to bed with me because bed's too intimate? No, wait, it's not that."

John folded his arms. "Go on," he said. "I'm waiting for the theory."

"It's not a theory," said Sherlock. "Theories don't count here. You won't go to bed with me because...oh." He frowned at John. "Because you haven't solved the case."

"Close," said John and licked over his bottom lip. "Because I haven't earned it."

"Earned bed," said Sherlock. "With me? You can have that any time you want now, we've established that."

"Earned the right to say we're, you know, in public."

"Oh," said Sherlock and frowned. "And we can't be seen together until then?"

"We're seen together all the time. Just not like this," said John and ran his tongue behind his teeth before he reached for Sherlock's jacket and opened it. "And I'd prefer it stayed that way."

"For now?" asked Sherlock as John pulled at the buttons on his shirt and opened them up. John looked up at him and Sherlock grinned. "Well obviously not like this."

"Let's keep it all between us for now," said John and pushed Sherlock's shirt open, baring his chest. He drew his fingers down from Sherlock's throat and stroked his fingertips over the expanse of his chest. He bent his head to lick at the pebbled nipple and heard Sherlock groan. John pressed his hand over Sherlock's mouth and grinned against his skin. "I said, let's keep it between us."

"Fine," said Sherlock, his voice muffled. He licked at the cup of John's hand and John felt him bite down on his palm as he kissed his way down Sherlock's belly. He paused at the dip of his navel before he slid lower. Both hands needed as he unfastened the metal clasp of his belt buckle and tugged at the zip on his trousers. The shorts beneath were snug and form fitting and though the closet was small, John sank down to his knees and glanced upward.

"You're going to have to help me here."

"There's a shelf digging into my back," said Sherlock. "And I think that's a hoover I'm leaning on."

"Bend your knees," said John and Sherlock obliged with some difficulty. His foot clanged against the mop bucket and John giggled as he started to tug on the fabric.

"Are you sure we can't go to bed?" asked Sherlock and John shook his head and reached into Sherlock's shorts.

"Here or nothing," said John and Sherlock hesitated for a second.

"Here," said Sherlock and slid his hands to John's hair. John reached up and pulled his fingers away. "Don't you like-"

"I'd like you to get your hands back where I can see them," said John.

"You don't trust me?"

"With many things," said John and as Sherlock huffed he glanced back up. "Brace yourself."

"Dear God, what are you going to do?" asked Sherlock. "I was expecting a blow job, not...whatever else you have in mind."

"A blow job," said John. "The shelves are a bit wobbly and you might need to grab the door. So just keep hold of everything else."

"And?"

"And I'll take care of you," said John and Sherlock grinned and placed one hand on the shelf above John's head and one on the door handle. John licked his bottom lip and bared the length of Sherlock's dick, warm and heavy where it had grown erect. Not all the way, not yet and John stroked his fingers along it before he leaned in and ran his tongue along the underside. He heard the gasp above him and kept his hand wrapped round the heavy length before he tasted the slick liquid at the head.

He'd never done this before, and he wanted to be good at it. John had spent time over the years learning how to be a good lover and practicing it until he was damn sure everyone went away happy. He knew how to handle a woman and he knew how to handle himself. John knew very clearly what he liked when it came to being touched and that any kind of blow job tended to be good, despite the skill behind it. But he wanted to make Sherlock lose his mind, however temporarily and he concentrated hard.

This close to Sherlock's erection, he ran his fingers over the soft skin. Beneath it he could feel the rigid length, warm beneath his touch and sensitive to John's caress. He ran his fingertips over the shiny skin at the head and heard Sherlock catch his breath. John leaned in, his tongue touched to his skin again before he took him in his mouth. It was different from anything he was used to but far from unpleasant. Sherlock Holmes with his pants down and John sucked slowly.

He swirled his tongue round the underside of Sherlock's dick as he sucked. He could feel the sudden buck of Sherlock's hips as he pushed against the sensitive skin beneath the head and drew back. John concentrated on breathing through his nose as he sucked again. He glanced up and caught Sherlock with his head back and his eyes closed and John was definitely having an effect. He looked at the hand on the door. Sherlock's knuckles were white but he held the door handle tight as John had asked.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock's skin as he sucked harder. He risked taking more of Sherlock's erection into his mouth, used his tongue along the shaft and moved faster. His jaw ached and his fingers felt numb as he stroked Sherlock's dick. He stroked the sac beneath, feeling the way Sherlock almost swayed toward him and John wondered if he'd swallow. He wanted to, but wasn't sure he could and Sherlock almost seemed to be holding back. His breathing was irregular and John could taste the urgency in him. He wanted to come, John could feel how close he must be and yet there was only the slipperiness of salt and not enough.

A matter of pride and he reached for Sherlock's arse and pulled hard. John felt Sherlock's dick sink deeper into his mouth and the buck of his hips. He curled his fingers against the firm cheeks and sucked harder, his teeth barely grazing the skin and he looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze as the man finally came. The look was priceless, all dilated pupils and open mouth and John didn't think many people had ever seen him like this. He swallowed before he thought about it too much and only as Sherlock's eyes closed did John draw back from him.

He let go of Sherlock's arse and wiped his fingers against the back of his mouth. He grinned as he tugged Sherlock's pants and trousers back up and balanced against the wobbly shelf as he got back to his feet. John reached for Sherlock's hand where it still clutched the door handle and on instinct kissed the back of his knuckles. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled at John.

"Anyone might come in."

"Catch us in the closet?" asked John and grinned as he refastened Sherlock's shirt and straightened it. "It's you. You could be anywhere."

"Is that what you think?"

"Admittedly not with me on my knees," said John. "They ache a bit."

"You'll cope," said Sherlock. "I knelt on damp leaves for you."

"There's a strong scent of disinfectant in here," said John. "Gets in your nose."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you competing?"

"With you?" chuckled John and shook his head. "Not a chance. Right, I'm gonna go and brush my teeth and then Mrs Hudson."

"You're going to brush Mrs Hudson's teeth?" asked Sherlock with a grin and leaned in to kiss John. "Right. So do you want me there?"

"No," said John and when Sherlock huffed he shrugged. "This is only a game."

"Are you suggesting I'd do anything other than question her?"

"No, _just_ question her, that's bad enough." John reached for the door and opened it. The hallway remained clear and he stepped out. He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve and closed the door behind them. "Molly and Lestrade'll be back shortly. You could keep an eye out for them."

"Are you suggesting I act as your watchdog?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes."

"Really?"

"You want me to solve this," said John and brushed flour absently from Sherlock's collar. "And I can't do that if I have to watch out for everyone."

"Oh, _fine_ ," said Sherlock and sighed heavily. "Even you should be able to solve this by tonight."

"We're here for the whole weekend," said John. "I've got plenty of time."

"But," began Sherlock and took a quick breath and clearly tried a different tack. "We're sleeping here tonight."

"Yes."

"And you won't share my room."

"No."

"Or let me in yours?"

"No."

"Then I fail to understand why I should hope you take the entire weekend," said Sherlock. "Given what you already know, you should already have established exactly who the murderer is, the weapon-"

"Rope."

"What type of rope and which room he was killed in. Come on, John. Think!"

"Well," began John and licked his lip as he stepped back. "I have thought, Sherlock, and I've decided to take the entire weekend to solve this in. But," he said and winked. "There are lots of rooms here."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "And he was killed in one of them."

John stared at him. "You're seriously missing the point."

"I am?" asked Sherlock and frowned before realisation dawned. "Oh. Other rooms."

"Exactly," said John and walked toward the stairs. "Now do me a favour and keep an eye out."

He walked upstairs to the bathroom with a grin on his face. John pushed open the bathroom door and ran water into the sink as he reached for his toothbrush. He met his reflection in the mirror and paused. Here was a version of John Watson who had made Sherlock Holmes come. He had seen the man stripped of everything else but desire and had made him come, had swallowed it and done it all in the cover of a storeroom with nothing but Sherlock's hand on the door to protect them.

John licked over his bottom lip and grinned at himself as he brushed his teeth. "You are the man," he chuckled and barely heard the door open behind him.

"Yes, you are," said Sherlock and grinned. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said John. "For what?"

"Don't be facetious," said Sherlock. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Sort of want you to say it."

"Here?" asked Sherlock and glanced round. "Someone might hear."

"Mycroft's in the kitchen, Mrs Hudson's downstairs in the lounge with our hostess and Molly and Lestrade are off enjoying afternoon delight, or something like it." John grinned wider. "Go on. Say it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but he looked back at John's reflection and smiled. "Thank you for the blow job. It was good."

"Just good?"

"Very good."

"Tch," said John. "Not amazing?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Can't set the bar too high, John. I want you to practice."

"Arse," said John and laughed. "Get out. Go watch for Molly and Lestrade or I won't do it again."

"You will."

"You first," said John and the edge of Sherlock's mouth suggested a smile.

"Later," said Sherlock. "Be gentle with Mrs Hudson. She is a dear."

He waltzed out of the bathroom and John looked back at himself in the mirror and brushed the toothpaste from his mouth. He settled his hands on the edge of the sink and turned his mind back to the task at hand. All he had to do was figure out who'd killed Doctor Black and he could share his bed tonight. He could win it, could make his demands and he met his reflection evenly and grinned before he  straightened himself up and headed down to talk to Mrs Hudson.


	6. Miss Peacock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John interviews Mrs Hudson and asks some searching questions over tea and biscuits.
> 
> Then he takes a shower. Very dirty work in the murder mystery business.

Mrs Hudson sat neatly in the chair and dunked her custard cream into her tea.

"It's such a lovely little market," she said as she declined a second biscuit. "All these stalls. You can get all these little knick knacks. I mean, not Sherlock's sort of thing at all, nothing odd, but there are people who've been keeping the craft alive for years."

"Sounds lovely," said John. "Did you get anything?"

"Oh yes. A pretty throw for the sofa in the front room. And some doilies. You can't just get the same quality at Covent Garden. I mean they're good sorts, but you can tell." She smiled at him and bit into the biscuit. "Are you having a nice time up here?"

"Pretty good," said John as he leaned back in the armchair and kept his tea cup on the arm. "So what do you think of our little game here?"

"Well, it's not really my thing," she said quietly and leaned forward. "I see enough of it at home, but at least there aren't any nasty things in the fridge here."

"Mycroft's baking," said John and she nodded.

"He's not bad," she said. "Sherlock's not bad either, but he doesn't like to. Much prefers to mess about with all his experiments. But they're both kind of hands on."

John almost resisted the urge to grin. "Sherlock likes to get his hands dirty," he said and cleared his throat. "But I've got a sort of a bet on with him."

"Oh?"

"He said I couldn't solve this crime and I said I could."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ you could," said Mrs Hudson and John noted the tone of encouragement. "I'm sure you can work it out."

"Thank you."

"It's just a game," she added and John tapped his finger against his teaspoon. "So how are you going to do it?"

"I'm asking questions," said John and she raised her eyebrows and put her cup down.

"I'm a suspect," she said and clasped a hand against her bosom. "I didn't do it."

John grinned. "It is just a game, Mrs Hudson," he said and leaned forward to pat her hand. "And you have a character story."

"I haven't read it," she said. "It just seemed really long and Mrs Cartright said it wouldn't really matter. Everyone makes things up."

"Not much of a game, then," he said and licked his bottom lip. "But I've got to ask, where were you at seven last night?"

She picked up her teacup and sipped from it. "I know this one."

"Yes?"

"I was in the library," she said. "I was looking for a good book to read at bedtime. There's quite a lot in there but it's mostly many crime novels. I prefer something a bit romantic, that's all. Anyway, I was in there and I found this John Grisham I hadn't read, so I thought I'd give it a try."

"Any good?"

"A bit racy," she said quietly. "I mean I don't mind, normally, but the things he'd _written_. It was a bit much when I tried reading it last night."

"I'd ask Mrs Cartright," said John. "She's probably got some tucked away."

"I would, but she's had that problem with her handyman and I didn't like to ask." She smiled at him. "Oh, I'm not being much help to you, am I?"

"It's fine," said John and took a quick breath. "So did you do it?"

"Do what?" she asked.

"Did you kill Doctor Black?"

She chuckled and then shook her head hard. "No, it wasn't me. Sorry, John."

"Ah, well, it was a bit of a long shot," he said and smiled at her. "Don't worry, I'll work it out."

"I'm sure you will, dear," she said and glanced round briefly before she turned back to him. "I don't know who it might have been. Perhaps you could ask the others."

"That's rather the idea," said John and took out his notepad. "So far it's not you and it's not Mycroft. I haven't spoken to Molly or Greg yet."

"Oh they're out," she said and glanced at the plate. "Would I be terrible if I had another one?"

"Help yourself," he said and stood up as he noticed Sherlock walk past the window. "Looks like they might have come back."

"They do seem to be getting along," said Mrs Hudson. "It's turning out to be a bit of romantic weekend, isn't it?"

"A little bit," he said and she got to her feet, her hand on her hip. "You all right?"

"It's the weather," she said. "It just aches in the damp. Does your knee do the same?"

"Not been too bad," he said and licked over his bottom lip. "A bit creaky today. But I'm good."

"I was going to say, you can have some of my herbals," she offered. "If you wanted."

"Thank you."

"You're looking well, though," she said. "It suits you being out here. You've got some colour in your cheeks. Maybe you should get out of the city more often."

John leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'll bear it in mind," he said. "I think I'll just nip out and see what Sherlock's doing."

She nodded at him and perched on the edge of the seat. "I might give this book another go. It might be better in the daylight."

"Just keep your eye on the window for murderers," he said and hesitated when she caught her breath. "I'm sure there won't be any more dead bodies."

"Well, they're not real," said Mrs Hudson. "It is only pretend. I mean, it _is_ only pretend. Sherlock's not going to find something, is he?"

"You can never tell," said John. "But I think you're safe."

She beamed at him and he walked out into the hall, notepad still in hand as Sherlock stepped inside the front door. He looked decidedly damp and he sighed at the rain dripping down his face. "Maybe you should have brought the hat."

"The hat stays in the...wherever it is," said Sherlock. "They're still out. Even if they've had sex all afternoon, you'd think they'd be sick of the rain and want to be in before dark."

"Young love," said John. "You can't beat it."

"Hardly young," said Sherlock. "Lestrade's older than you."

"And I'm the barometer?" asked John. "Interesting."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I think I probably do," said John and reached for Sherlock's hand. He tugged until Sherlock followed him up the stairs to the second floor bathroom and John sat him on the edge of the bathtub. John picked up a towel and scrubbed at Sherlock's hair, drying it off as the man sat compliantly in what felt like a soggy coat. "If I weren't a doctor I'd say you'd catch your death."

"And since you are?"

"I'll stick to telling you to take those wet things off and get yourself warmed up."

Sherlock glanced up at him and smirked. "You're subtle."

"Sometimes," said John and licked over his bottom lip as he settles the towel on the edge of the sink. "Screw subtle today. There's just us and I'd really like you to get your kit off."

"All of it?" said Sherlock. "You just had to ask."

"I'm asking now."

"All right." Sherlock paused and raised an eyebrow at John. "You're not going to make me strip alone?"

"Get naked and we'll see."

Sherlock grinned at him and eased off the coat. He handed it over as John hung it up on the back of the door, dripping down onto the tile as Sherlock toed off his shoes and socks. His shirt and trousers landed on the floor with a worrying splat and Sherlock skinned off his underpants and glanced back at John. "Souvenir?"

"No thanks. I already do most of the laundry," said John and pulled his jumper off over his head. He unfastened his shirt as Sherlock scrubbed at his hair absently. It was a little like looking at a life model, only John was certain they looked less smug when they posed. Sherlock was as confident with his pants off as he was with them on and, given that they'd misbehaved themselves successfully earlier in the day, John felt perfectly comfortable watching.

He folded his own trousers and turned the key in the door behind him. "I suppose we could consider this a locked room mystery," said John as he settled his underpants on top of his clothes.

"There's very little mystery," said Sherlock. "Unless it's why you insist we have to be here instead of the bedroom and yes, I'm aware of your reasoning, however frustrating it is."

"No mystery about that," said John and turned on the shower, his hand beneath the water to test the temperature. He smiled as he looked back at Sherlock, anticipating his touch as the man walked the short distance to join him. "After the afternoon you've had, I thought you needed a shower."

"I thought you needed me," said Sherlock and pressed his hand against the tile. "Cold there, John. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer bed?"

"If I find my killer," said John and grinned as he stepped under the spray and turned his head up into the water. He felt the heat as it fell against his face, damping his body down and he reached for the shampoo. Let Sherlock watch, if he wanted. John had spent a long time taking care of his body in places where no-one took care of John at all. His hair felt rough beneath his fingertips where it had dried out from the rain earlier, his flesh the same as it had always been, rounder in places that he would have liked, but not so much that he wanted to do something about it. His body had served him well, had weathered him through pain and pleasure and he was realistic enough to know that there'd be more of both at some point.

He opened an eye toward Sherlock as he rubbed soap over his chest and felt his breath catch. He'd spent plenty of time watching Sherlock as surreptitiously as he could manage. John was an expert in appreciating Sherlock's form without being obvious and could catalogue all his movements, all his expressions. He knew his bored face, his appalled stance, his heroic stride. This one was new and if it had a name, it would have to be lust and, on reflection, lust for John Watson.

Definitely one to put down in the mind bungalow.

"You want to wash my back?"

"No," said Sherlock after a few seconds. "I'll just stand here a minute. Go ahead."

"Suit yourself," said John and soaped himself up thoroughly. He didn't do anything special, resisting the urge to flash his arse, despite feeling quite proud of the well defined and muscled derriere he possessed. He scrubbed himself down and when he felt squeaky clean he looked back at Sherlock again. The look was definitely still there, increased somewhat and John grinned at him and beckoned. "Come on, I'll scrub yours."

Sherlock stepped into the spray and stood still as John reached for the sponge. "You're far too interesting."

"For what?" asked John and stroked the sponge over Sherlock's chest. "Arms behind your head."

"Hmm," said Sherlock and obliged. "Your ordinariness, it's so distracting."

"You've got quite a way with words," said John. "I'm old, I'm ordinary. Anything else?"

Sherlock settled his hands behind his neck and gasped as John cleaned his hips and thighs. "You're the singularly most interesting man I've met."

"Including him?" asked John and Sherlock frowned. "Well, he might have been a deranged lunatic, but he had quite the presence."

"I didn't want to have sex with him."

"Too interesting?"

"He isn't you."

"Ah," said John and scrubbed a little harder at Sherlock's behind. "Well there are a lot of people who aren't me. You're going to have to be clearer than that."

"You know what I mean," said Sherlock and caught his hand. He lifted it and held it to his mouth, his tongue made a pink appearance and he sucked John's middle finger hard before he released it. John's body reacted quickly, his penis swelling, rising as he enjoyed Sherlock's attention. "You never cease to surprise me and I am very attracted to you. Your mouth alone is enough to make me lose my concentration and it's often very inconvenient."

John glanced down and grinned as he looked back up at Sherlock's face. "Fancy me a bit, hmm?"

"A little," said Sherlock and John laughed and pushed him back against the cold wall. Sherlock gasped and John set his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He licked at Sherlock's mouth, brushing teeth before Sherlock opened up and kissed him back. John could feel faint stubble against his chin, against his hand as he drew it back round to stroke Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock kissed the way he did everything else he was passionate about. His tongue stroked over John's until John drew back to catch his breath.

"Just a little?"

"Really, John, my erection is practically stabbing you in the belly. How complimentary do I have to be?"

John licked over his bottom lip and slid his hand down Sherlock's sides and gripped his thighs tight. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's neck and grazed his teeth over Sherlock's skin. John could feel the pulse beneath his tongue and sucked hard. Sherlock gasped and John squeezed his thighs. He bent his knees and lifted, pushing Sherlock up the wall, gratified when Sherlock obligingly wrapped his calves round the back of John's own, when he could feel Sherlock's hands gripping his forearms and the satisfying throb of his dick against John's skin.

John lifted his head, his feet spread on the slick surface. His toes curled, seeking some purchase so that he could move a little harder, but the tile was slippery and John didn't quite want to risk sending them crashing to the floor. But the sensation of his dick rubbing against Sherlock's own was temptation itself. He could feel the rub of foreskin against shaft and the sudden and delicious knowledge that Sherlock didn't have limits made his head fill with possibilities.

"How's your investigation going?"

"Sherlock," said John as he kissed the man again. "No shop talk."

"It's not shop talk," said Sherlock and settled one hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. "We're on holiday."

"Busman's holiday," said John and ran his tongue along the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock groaned and John rolled his hips, picked up the heat between them and felt the strain in his lower back. "It's not pillow talk."

"You won't give me pillow talk. I'm banned from your room."

"I'm shagging you in the shower. Anything here counts as pillow talk."

"Anything _here_ is here and you can't fuck me here," said Sherlock and ran his fingertips over the ridge of John's spine as he arched his back. "But, when you solve the case, we can go to bed. Far more convenient so please, John. How is the investigation going?"

"It's going well," said John and rolled his hips harder, trying to get some friction. His foot slipped and he growled and gripped Sherlock's thighs tighter. "I'm closing in."

"You're losing your grip."

"On the murderer."

"Oh, quite possibly," said Sherlock and maneuvered his hand between them both and slid his fingers awkwardly round their erections. John halted and Sherlock leaned in and licked at John's ear. "Stay still if you want to carry on this ridiculous escapade."

"I was enjoying moving," panted John and giggled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Okay, okay, I don't want to fall over."

"Then stay still and brace yourself."

"Take it for Queen and Country."

"Higher power," said Sherlock. "Me."

"Right you are, then," said John and caught his breath as Sherlock moved his hand steadily up and over the head of his dick. He could feel it rub against Sherlock's own and wanted to laugh at how good it was. How different it felt and he dropped his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "That's seriously good."

"Of course it is," said Sherlock and chuckled against John's ear. "Now hush, unless you want to say my name."

"I do little else," said John and gasped.

The heat between their bodies was intense and the angle was awkward, but John could do nothing but lift his hips, curl his toes against the floor and push into the loose grip of Sherlock's fist. He could feel Sherlock's belly, the faint hair their making his balls draw up tight and he knew that he wouldn't last much longer. He was struck by the notion that Sherlock might last longer and found he didn't care. He just wanted to come in the grip of those elegant fingers. He wanted to feel Sherlock's skin against his own, wanted to feel the rush and rub of Sherlock's dick against his own and as John pictured how it would look, Sherlock's name growled off his tongue and he spilled, slick and sticky against Sherlock's belly.

His knees buckled slightly and John struggled to stay upright as Sherlock's hand didn't release him at all. His dick was throbbing and he needed to collapse, to get his breath back, but Sherlock was clearly almost there and John held on as hard as he could. He was prepared for the warm slickness that covered his belly as Sherlock's came in spurts. He was prepared for the squeeze of Sherlock's hand. He wasn't expecting his own name groaned in luxurious baritone against his ear and John's knees gave completely.

They slumped to the tiles, John's knees taking the brunt as they clung together under the spray of the shower. John groaned as he lifted his head and glanced round at the rest of the room and then back at Sherlock. "You warmed up now?"

"I think so," said Sherlock and dropped his head back against the tile. "I'd definitely choose this over drying in front of the fire."

"We could try that," said John and grinned. "Open fire, good whiskey, what's not to like."

"We don't have an open fire."

"There's one downstairs," said John and cleared his throat before he moved to separate them. "At least this washes off."

"I haven't got any dry clothes."

"Your bedroom's just there," said John. "You're fine. You can walk out in a towel."

"Fine," said Sherlock as John got to his feet and washed semen from his skin. "Does this count?"

"As what?" asked John and pulled Sherlock upright. "Wash up, I'll grab you a towel."

"As one of the rooms," said Sherlock and scrubbed his body down again. He turned off the spray as they toweled off and Sherlock wrapped a towel round his waist. "It's not one on the map," he said as John grabbed his clothes and kissed him quickly.

"Of course it is, Sherlock," said John and winked at him as he headed for the door. "Definitely a ball room."


	7. Reverend Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's investigations continue, with Lestrade eager to talk about why he's enjoying time away from London over a game of pool. Sherlock checks up to see how John's progressing.
> 
> It's a good job that table's sturdy.
> 
> Smut. Nakedness and billiard balls.

The billiard table was worn at the edges and badly in need of repair.

"Pool?" said Lestrade and John nodded and grabbed the rack to set up. "Nice dinner, wasn't it? Mycroft looked seriously smug."

The light flickered above their heads once before John banged it hard and it settled in. John had asked if anyone fancied a game and Lestrade had grinned, his hand lifting reluctantly from Molly's shoulder to wave acknowledgement and they'd left the room. John's thigh still seemed to burn where Sherlock's hand had rested beneath the table and he needed a little space to clear his head before he said something silly and took the man to bed. Twice in one day was pretty good going for a man who hadn't had sex in a while and while his dick helpfully reminded him it could stand another go round, John was sure his back and his thighs could use a little break.

"Sherlock says he's not bad in the kitchen," said John as he started to rack the balls. "You missed the starter though."

Lestrade grinned and flipped the chalk in his fingers. "Yeah, we were walking back."

"Oh yeah," said John and chuckled at the grin Lestrade wasn't embarrassed about in the slightest. "I take it things went well."

"You could say that," said Lestrade and twirled the cue ball in his fingers. "She's a great girl."

"That she is," said John. "Bit too interested in dead bodies for me, but she's really nice."

"You can talk," said Lestrade. "Spending all your time with someone who puts bits of human bodies in the fridge. At least Molls keeps all that at work."

"You've got a point," said John and flipped a coin. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails," said Lestrade and bent over the table, cue in hand as it landed head down. "It's good being away from work. Just gives you five minutes to think about other things."

"Except this is a murder mystery," said John and Lestrade laughed.

"Sure, sure," said Lestrade and frowned as the ball bounced off the cushion. "Molls says there's a prize. She's been working out who it might be."

"Well there's only six of us and Mrs Hudson got all her details from Mrs Cartright," said John. "I don't think it's her."

"No, neither does she," said Lestrade and stood up as John took his shot. "She's good at theorising. You should hear her."

"I'll leave that to you," said John and frowned as he stood up. "Wait, you spent the afternoon talking about the game?"

"Not all of it," said Lestrade. "She's got a busy mind."

"I suppose so," said John. "I haven't spent much time with her outside Barts. She doesn't really talk to me. Just him."

"Yeah," said Lestrade and leaned on the edge of the table. "Yeah, she likes him."

"So do you."

"Not like that."

John grinned. "Well, he's never shown the slightest interest. And I think she knows that, really."

"Doesn't change the fact she likes him." Lestrade shrugged and bent near the table. "Ah well, no one's perfect. She's really interesting, though."

John chuckled and chalked the end of his cue. "Funny, I heard someone say something similar earlier today."

"Oh yeah? About Molly?"

"No, it was," John paused and licked his lip. "Never mind. So it's going well, then. Think you'll carry on when you get back home?"

"Hope so," said Lestrade. "I've asked her to come to dinner next Saturday and she's said she will. Just make sure you don't have him pushing her into opening up a corpse. I don't fancy cutting dinner short unless it's for something less Sherlock related."

"I'll do my best," said John and set the ball down on the table. He glanced up at Lestrade and cleared his throat. "You've heard about this bet I've got on with him?"

"Yeah, something about it," said Lestrade. "He wasn't entirely clear on what he'll win."

"Who says he'll win?"

Lestrade stared at John.

"Yeah, all right," said John. "But all I've got to do is solve this thing. I mean, it's a game. It's not like one of the great minds of the century has set this up. It's Mrs Cartright and she can't even work out how to employ someone who won't steal the good china."

Lestrade chuckled and gestured with the cue. "Fine. It'll do him good to find out what it's like to lose. What can I do?"

"Let me interview you?"

Lestrade threw his head back and laughed before he looked at John again. "This should be interesting. Go on."

John nodded and took his shot. "All right. Where were you at the time of the murder?"

"That's what you want to ask?"

"It's relevant, you'll admit that."

Lestrade shook his head. "Means I've spent a good twenty minutes memorising a dossier for nothing. All right, the good reverend was in here."

"Fond of billiards, is he?"

"Fond of smoking cigars, laying on lousy bets and comforting the good widows of the parish." Lestrade grinned. "Not a bad sort, old Green."

John chuckled and gestured to the table. "So you were in here, doing what? Don't tell me you were playing by yourself?"

"No need," said Lestrade and cleared his throat. "I entered the billiard room at twenty to seven. I was alone and the room was empty. I'd met the doctor earlier, greeted him as the old friend he was, despite being a shop dummy with no genitals and no medical degree. The room was lit, the table was set up, ready for a game and I expected to meet Professor Plum in here at ten past seven." Lestrade twirled his cue absently. "However, in the meantime I browsed through the alcohol in the cupboard and poured out a brandy."

"Anything good?"

"Tescos," said Lestrade. "Anyway, I was still in here when I heard Miss Scarlett screaming and I headed out to the lounge."

"That's it?" asked John. "Any weapons in here?"

"You ask everyone that?"

"You look like a man who knows his weapons."

"Should do," said Lestrade. "And yeah, there's a few things but only one you'd be interested in. There's a length of lead piping behind the curtain there. Not sure why it's in here. Can't think of a single bloody reason why someone would leave it there."

"Except a murderer."

"Yeah," said Lestrade. "But I'm not the murderer."

"Funny how everyone keeps saying that," said John. "Course, so far I know Miss Peacock was picking out a book in the library by candlelight, Mrs White was in the kitchen cutting up a whole bunch of meat with his knife and you were in here." John huffed. "Well, I know what _I_ was doing as well."

"Were you killing him?"

"You're not the detective," said John and Lestrade laughed.

"Yeah, it's kind of nice," he said. "Look, once we're done here, I'm gonna see if Molls wants to go up to the ridge."

"It's bloody cold," said John. "Wrap up warm."

"Oh we'll be warm," said Lestrade. "She likes looking at the stars."

"So does Sherlock," said John absently.

"Probably catalogued them all after that art thing," said Lestrade and John shook his head.

"Doubt it. He only keeps things while they're useful."

"Guess that says something about the two of us," he said and John shrugged. "So are you getting away from things up here? Found some space that isn't trailing after him?"

"I don't trail," said John and Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah, I know. I was just thinking you could get out, go for a walk."

"Everyone's completely obsessed with going for walks up here," said John. "But I've been out. I've taken a walk. Taken in the view."

"It's not bad," said Lestrade and looked up as Molly opened the door. "Oh, hello, love. You all right?"

"Yes," she said and smiled at him as she walked in the room. Tonight's dress was yet another variation on red and she looked quite lovely in it. John glanced toward Lestrade and wondered if he ever looked like that when he caught Sherlock wearing something that suited him. The flush in her cheeks was particularly becoming and she only seemed to notice John was in the room when he cleared his throat. "Sherlock was looking for you."

"Not a big house," said John. "He'll catch up."

"Oh, of course," she said and stepped closer to Lestrade. "I thought we were going to watch the sun go down?"

"Yeah," said Lestrade and reached for her hand. "Tomorrow night. I thought we'd just look at the stars tonight. That rain's cleared the clouds away."

"All right," she said and glanced back at John. "If I see him, do you want me to tell him where you are?"

"Let him come find me if he needs me."

"Give the man a break," said Lestrade and squeezed her hand lightly. "He can't be at Sherlock's beck and call all the time."

"Right," she said and smiled back at John. "Good luck."

"Thanks," said John. "Talk to you in the morning."

She nodded at him as Lestrade held the door open and John glanced back down at the game. He'd definitely been winning, though clearly Lestrade's mind was not on the game. His loss, no matter what and John could remember clearly being that romantic with girls before. He could remember buying a single flower for a woman, just to see her face when he picked out something special for her. John tried to imagine doing a similar thing for Sherlock and decided if he ever did, it would have to be something poisonous and he'd have to get gloves for them both.

He smiled at the thought and racked up the balls again, tidying up as he went. He decided that despite how simple it seemed to be for Lestrade and Molly, he liked the way things were going with Sherlock. Sure, there had been something of a mad revelation, but it hadn't broken the world, hadn't changed who they were to each other. There was just an extra element, the one thing John had deemed missing from his life and was quite relieved to discover Sherlock considered important too. Sex and solutions, a match made in an awkward but livable world.

The door opened again and John hesitated before holding out the cue to Sherlock. "I didn't know you played."

"University, John. Good place to get information." He smiled briefly and gestured. "Do you want to play first?"

"Don't tell me this is another thing you're expert in," said John and grinned as he leaned over the table. "Still, I'm not worried. I've got a few moves."

"It's just maths," said Sherlock. "And physics. The trick is making it work for you."

"Yeah," said John and sank a ball perfectly before he moved round the table and leaned in again. "And luck."

"Luck has no place here," said Sherlock. "How's your investigation? Did Lestrade confess?"

"It's not him," said John and played the next ball. "He was in here."

"And you believe him?"

"I believe he was in here," said John. "Besides, he's just one more person off my list."

"I see," said Sherlock and frowned as John sank another ball. "Pub passtime?"

"Now and again," grinned John and stood up. "Anyway, he knew his stuff and now I've got more to go on."

"A plethora of information," said Sherlock. "I'm surprised. I thought even you would have solved this by now."

"Ever strike you I want to get all my ducks in a row?" asked John and played his next shot. "You agreed I should interview everyone."

"Everyone relevant," said Sherlock and sighed before he shrugged off his jacket, folded his cuffs to his elbows and walked round next to John. As John bent forward to take his shot, Sherlock leaned next to him, mouth to his ear. "I know you're more intuitive than this."

John licked his lip and concentrated, his eyes firmly on the glossy sheen of the ball. "I want to interview everyone."

"You're running out of suspects."

"Oh, there's a few left," said John and took the shot. Sherlock huffed and John's shot glanced off the cushion. "And I'll be looking at one very closely."

"Oh really?" asked Sherlock and bent to the table to look at the angle. He moved round carefully and John leaned back, admiring the man's arse in trousers. He looked as though he'd skipped underwear when he redressed and John was very much in favour. John licked over his bottom lip as Sherlock stretched, quite unnecessarily over the table and took an elegant shot. The ball sank easily in the pocket and John laughed in spite of himself, aware that Sherlock's talents only ever lay in what interested him. Clearly showing off to John interested him a great deal.

Sherlock turned his head, cue still in hand. "You could question me now."

John shook his head. "Nope, not yet."

"Why not? I'm here and it puts you one step closer to my bed."

John grinned. "I could walk there now. We both know that. But I'm planning to savour that interview."

"Interesting," said Sherlock and turned back to the table. "Do I need to get the rope back out?"

"I'll be making those decisions," said John and stepped closer as Sherlock aimed. He set his hand on the curve of Sherlock's backside and squeezed, his fingers hard against Sherlock's trousers. "And if you will come in here and flirt..."

"I wasn't flirting," said Sherlock and turned his head to look at John. "Is it my fault you find me so attractive?"

"Coming in here, all shirt pushed to your elbows and trousers so damn tight they're almost splitting? Yes, very much. It's all your fault I find you attractive," said John, his hand ceaselessly stroking. "Do you know how hard it's been for me to keep my hands off your arse at crime scenes? It's indecent."

"My arse?"

"Quite possibly, but you know what I meant."

Sherlock pushed back lightly, his backside pushed more firmly against John's hand. "And did it ever occur to you how frustrated I've been that you didn't?"

John blinked and then drew his hand back to slap the ample cheek before he stepped away and glanced toward the door. He stepped away and turned the key, locking them in as Sherlock stood upright again.

"Delayed gratification's good for you," said John and loosened his tie. "I can't believe I'm going to do this."

"Lock yourself in with a suspect?"

"I've done more than that."

"Ah, then that would be having sex three times in one day. Honestly, John, I know you've bested that."

"Yes, and I was quite a bit younger," said John and licked his bottom lip as he reached for Sherlock's cue. "When I was little, I did a lot of the same sorts of things as we do now."

"Solving crimes," drawled Sherlock as he settled against the table, his fingers gripping the edge as he watched John draw closer. "Chasing clues?"

"Some of that, yeah," said John and stepped between Sherlock's spread thighs. John settled his hands on Sherlock's thighs and stroked down, the fabric ruffling beneath his fingertips. "Running with you makes me feel alive."

"I didn't know you needed a reminder," said Sherlock and settled his arms easily round John's waist. "You feel very much alive to me."

"Yeah," said John and lifted one hand to Sherlock's jaw. He stroked there slowly, his thumb firm against Sherlock's cheek and John kissed him, tasting the whiskey he'd found. John grinned as Sherlock kissed him back and whatever he didn't know about Sherlock's history, about whether he'd done this once before or a thousand times, John was with him now. John was interesting and intended to remain so. He slid his hand up from Sherlock's thigh to his groin and squeezed what he felt there, and what he felt was definitely interested in the proceedings.

"How sturdy do you think this table is?" he asked and Sherlock turned his head briefly before he looked back at John.

"Sturdy enough," he said and reached for John's shirt, unfastening it with his customary impatience as John giggled. "A little help, please. I don't intend to get caught in flagranté in here."

"Are you asking me to do this quick?" asked John as he tugged at Sherlock's clothes. "No one's asked me to hurry up since my school days."

"What were you doing at school?" asked Sherlock as he pushed John's shirt off his shoulders and wrestled one arm free. "Really? At school?"

"Not like this," said John and leaned in to kiss Sherlock as he found the buckle of Sherlock's belt. "God, _nothing_ like this."

"But it's good," said Sherlock and John picked up a faint whisper of uncertainty. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock as hard as he could before he picked him up and set his backside on the table.

"Very good," said John and jumped up, his hand on the edge of the baize as Sherlock turned and pushed as many balls into the pockets as he could manage. John grinned as he leaned forward and pulled Sherlock's belt free of the loops. He banged his head on the light and John swore beneath his breath before Sherlock tugged him back down. The table felt very sturdy beneath his knees and he pulled hard at Shelock's trousers, tugging them down from his waist. "Do you just wear underwear when I wash it?"

"Sometimes not even then," said Sherlock as he unfastened John's trousers and slid his hands down beneath the waistline. John groaned as Sherlock's long fingers stroked over his arse. He bucked in against Sherlock and scrambled to strip himself. He moved better when he was naked, liked the lack of restriction and the freedom to move more freely. John liked his body, enjoyed being seen, being touched and he lay down on top of Sherlock, their legs tangled and the delicious rush of naked flesh pressed close.

"Oh fuck me," said John and Sherlock slid his hands to John's neck and pulled him closer.

"It sounds exquisite," he said. "Why don't we get right on that?"

John chuckled between kisses and rolled his hips, reveling in being able to play, even if the surface was hard. "Ah, I don't have anything."

"Be inventive."

"We're naked on a pool table."

"Billiards."

"Still naked."

"And slightly cliché," said Sherlock and sucked on John's bottom lip. "So if we can't do that, what do you intend to do?"

"Rolling round naked's working for me," said John and giggled a little loudly when his dick rubbed up against Sherlock's own. The sweat between them seemed to work quite well and he felt slippery and overexcited as he moved. "Working for you?"

"I have no real complaints," said Sherlock and lifted his hips toward John. He wrapped one ankle round the back of John's calf and moved, his rhythm matching John's as they kissed.

John growled as he moved, his hand slid from Sherlock's chest to grip the man's thigh as they wriggled against one another. As an excercise in arousal it was perfect. He felt close all the time, though the pressure was never quite enough to tip him over the edge. It seemed to be the same for them both and as John felt Sherlock's hips buck up harder, John drew back on his knees and reached for Sherlock's erection.

He caught his breath as Sherlock looked up at him and for a moment it seemed the detective was slightly dazed. John's hand slid more firmly round the heavy weight of Sherlock's dick and he squeezed, his fingers rolling over the surface as he picked up speed. Sherlock groaned and John growled out a breath as he felt Sherlock's hand wrap round his own dick. He could say something, was sure Sherlock would say something about how they could do more, but John's head was full of how good it felt to touch and to be touched in return.

His mouth dropped open as Sherlock leaned up one elbow and moved his hand faster. John could feel the edge approaching and he groaned as he spilled. Sherlock's fingers tightened round him and John watched as the slick liquid spilled over Sherlock's belly. It seemed unreal, as though everything he'd thought about was actually happening and it was far better for being slicker, stickier and untidier than anything he'd imagined Sherlock could manage. 

"Good," said Sherlock and lifted his hips. "Me now?"

John's hand closed tight round Sherlock's erection as he recovered. "You now," he said and squeezed, his fingers relentless until Sherlock arched up on the table, his mouth open and his eyes fixed on John. He moaned John's name as he came and John glanced down, his fingers slick with Sherlock's come as it spurted against him. It looked the same as his own and John watched as it slid, slippery and potent against his hand and met John's come on Sherlock's belly.

"Us," murmured John and glanced back up at Sherlock's face. "I'm taking you to bed," he said.

"Tonight?" asked Sherlock as he sprawled, sated and clearly enjoying himself. "I'm all for that."

"When I solve the murder," said John and licked his lip. "I'm taking you to bed and you're not getting out of it even if the Queen needs you."

"But not tonight?" said Sherlock. "Seems a pity."

"Yeah," said John and leaned down to kiss him. "But, _you_ set a challenge."

"I revoke it," said Sherlock and John shook his head. "No?"

"No," said John and grabbed at his underpants. He swiped them over his belly and cleaned Sherlock's. "I'm going to win."

"And that's important to you," said Sherlock. He rolled onto his side as John hopped down off the table and grabbed his clothes. "We're usually on the same side."

"We still are," said John as he pulled his clothes on quickly. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock leisurely. "Night, professor."

"I prefer it when you say _my_ name," said Sherlock and sat up gracefully. "Oh, fine, we'll do it your way. But, colonel?"

"Yes?"

"Work it out before lunch. I'd like to spend at least some of our afternoon in bed."

John was still grinning when he headed for the stairs.


	8. Miss Scarlett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John interviews Molly at the breakfast table as he narrows his list of suspects.
> 
> There is jam. There is toast.
> 
> There is also a rendezvous in the cellar that shouldn't take place in respectable establishments.

John felt thoroughly rested and ready to face the day, having slept through until Mrs Cartright woke him for breakfast.

He'd enjoyed the full English and was munching on jam slathered toast when Molly walked in and sat opposite him at the table. John thought the red cherries on her cardigan were today's nod to her character and he noted the high collar on her shirt that she tugged at, a telling sign he'd mention to Sherlock later, just to point out he did observe when it was something that interested him. He didn't outwardly show any sign that he'd noticed. John had no interest in making Molly more uncomfortable than she clearly was.

He pushed the toast rack toward her and poured her a cup of tea. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Molly said and sat up straight in the chair. "I thought I'd better come down now, do _this_ now, I mean."

"Oh," said John. "The interview? Well, it's just for the game. No need to get stressed. You want sugar in your tea?"

"Sweetner," she said and smiled at him. "I've read my story. I can tell you where I was."

"Great," said John and took another bite of toast. "You heading out in the great outdoors again, today?"

"No," she said. "Greg's says there's a castle not too far away. We're going to go up and check it out. Maybe pick up a postcard or something to prove I _actually_ managed to get away for a bit. It's nice to see actual sunlight."

"Countryside's good for you," said John and smiled, aware that he was using his most doctorly tones. Molly wasn't a particularly nervy person. God knows you couldn't have worked where she did if she'd been the slightest bit squeamish, but Molly was usually on the other side of an investigation. This one, however fictional, was clearly unpleasant for her and John took a quick breath and decided to plow through this quickly. "Wouldn't want to keep you from that, so I'll be quick."

"Good," Molly said and sipped at her tea. "I was in the dining room," she said. "I thought I might get a little more dessert because apparently I can't resist the cook's apple pie."

"Well, who could," he said and grinned. "So this was on Friday night?"

"Yes," she said and bit the edge of the toast. "There wasn't anything left though. It had all been tidied away, so I sort of looked round for a bit and then there was a scream."

John frowned. "I thought you were the one who screamed?"

"Oh, oh I did, but not then," she said and leaned forward. "I heard a man scream."

"Really?"

"No, not really," Molly said and twitched a smile. "I mean in the game, really, but not _really_. It was a made up scream."

"Right," grinned John. "Okay, so you heard a scream and you did what?"

"I went to the lounge," she said. "And then I did scream because that dummy was so horrible."

"Yeah, it's a bit creepy," said John. "I think I would have screamed."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "Really? Because I thought you'd seen much worse."

"Not much worse than that dummy," said John. "Pretty creepy, like you said."

She nodded. "Well, then everyone came in, you were there."

"I wasn't the first in the room," said John and polished off his toast. "I think I was last. Do you remember what order everyone came in?"

Molly bit her lip and considered. "Well, there was no one in the room when I got there."

"Doors all closed?"

She nodded. "And then Miss Peacock came in to see if I was all right. And then Greg, uh, the reverend came in and he was really sweet."

"Did you see Mycroft?"

"Mrs White, yes," said Molly and cleared her throat. "But just briefly. He was on the phone and headed back to the kitchen when he saw the body."

"And Professor Plum?"

"Just before you," said Molly and shrugged. "He came in just before you. I thought maybe you were together, but you came in a few minutes later and then there was that business with the secret passageway."

"Yes," said John and sat up straighter. "So you didn't see anyone in there? Did you hear anything other than the scream?"

"I didn't hear a name," she said. "Just that scream and I went in and he was dead. On the sofa and I didn't know what killed him." She smiled at John. "Funny that, I mean I'm usually the one who finds out what killed someone. And Greg works out how and why."

"Nice combination," said John. "I hear you're going out to dinner next week."

"I hope so," she said. "It's been so nice this weekend. I just..." she sighed. "Next week, when things are all back to normal. I hope it doesn't just end, you know?"

"I'm sure it won't," said John. "Seems like he really likes you."

"Do you think so?"

"He said so," said John and grinned back at her when Molly let go of whatever tension she clung to and beamed. "Okay, thanks for that. Answers all my questions."

"Oh good," she said. "So is that everyone?"

"Not quite," said John. "I've got to speak to Sherlock."

"Really?" she asked. "Oh, but he wouldn't...would he? I mean, I know it's a game, but if he was going to do anything it wouldn't be that messy."

"You haven't had to clean up the kitchen," said John. "Anyway, he's not special and he can answer questions just like anyone else."

She grinned and got to her feet. "Well, he listens to you."

"Sometimes," said John and put his cutlery down. "When it suits him."

"A lot," she said. "I've seen. I've heard."

He got to his feet as she walked to the door and Molly turned and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I hope you've had a good weekend too, John."

He blinked at her. "It's been great," he said and she smiled. "Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"I won't," she said. "Anyway, Sherlock says we've got to be back at eleven for the big reveal."

"What?"

"You know, the Miss Marple moment," she said. "When you get everyone in a room and tell them who did it."

John blinked. "And Sherlock's doing this?"

"No, he said you were," Molly smiled at him. "I think he's proud of you."

"Sherlock doesn't get like that," said John. "He doesn't get...proud. He said he was?"

"He said you were actually going to solve something," said Molly. "It's _sort_ of proud."

"Marvellous," said John and cleared his throat. "All right, I'd best get cracking and find him."

"Okay," she said brightly and waved at him. "See you at midday then."

He nodded and flipped out his phone. Sherlock's number rang out briefly before it flicked to answer phone and he sighed and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I don't know where you are but I'm about to head to the cellar. If you're here, come and join me and I can at least have questioned everyone before I apparently have to turn into Miss Marple."

John shoved his phone back in his pocket and walked down to the cellar door. He pushed on it lightly, not entirely surprised that it was unlocked. The light was off as he walked down the stairs and John kept his hand on the wall as he stepped into the darkness.

"Sherlock?"

John held a hand out in front of him to make sure he didn't bang into some hitherto unknown expensive wine and stepped further in. "Sherlock, if you're down here, don't let me make a prat of myself by waiting for me to fall on my face."

"You have your phone."

John rolled his eyes and took it out. He flicked on the torch and shone it round, revealing little of the cellar, save that it had several wine shelves and not very much wine. It was larger and colder than he'd been expecting and the dark corners here looked as though they could hide a few serial killers as well as his flatmate. "All right, I've got my phone. So why don't you step into the light."

"But I'm a suspect, aren't I?" asked Sherlock. "It's interesting. I've never been a suspect proper before."

"You're always a suspect," said John. "You know it's always a question when you seem to know more than the murderer. And this isn't a real crime."

"Don't disappoint me, John. You've played the game. You've interviewed almost all your suspects."

"Yeah and I've spent most of my weekend shagging you," said John and lowered his voice. He glanced back toward the top of the stairs. The door was still open but there were no shadows there. No one in the hall by the sounds of it and he looked back into the darkness. "It's been good."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "And what have you learned?"

"Mainly that you're a good shag," said John. "I know who the murderer is."

"Ah."

"Yeah, I've known for a while," said John and squinted into the darkness. He couldn't even pick out an outline and he kept his back close to the wall as he looked round. "But I like to be thorough."

"How did you know?"

"I expect I'll explain later," he said. John grinned at the sigh in the darkness and swung round toward the noise. It seemed closer than before and he licked over his bottom lip. "But I'd like to finish my investigation, since it seems I'm giving a bloody summation!"

"I look forward to it," said Sherlock and John frowned. "Ask your questions."

"I'm not doing it when you can see me and I can't see you. It's weird. Stop messing about and come out where I can see you."

"I don't think so," said Sherlock. "If I'm a suspect, I'll dictate the terms."

"You're well aware that I can beat you into submission."

"Violence and so early in the day? What happened? Was the jam inferior?"

"No, it was bloody tasty," said John and snapped the torch on his phone off. He blinked at the darkness. "Will you talk to me now?"

"I'm already talking."

"About the murder."

"Which you already said you'd solved," said Sherlock. "These are just footnotes."

"Actually no," said John and stepped deeper into the dark, his arm out in front of him. His knuckles brushed the brickwork and he turned when he felt the cold ease slightly. John hadn't done any investigation into what precisely made one human being aware that another one was close, but he trusted that it worked, that it was real. He'd spent too much time in combat to think for one second that he could entirely trust what he saw, but what he felt, what he sensed was unmistakable.

He grinned in the darkness and closed his hand round Sherlock's upper arm. "Not footnotes," he said and leaned in close enough to kiss. His lips hovered against Sherlock's long enough to anticipate that the smile was returned. "Research."

Kissing Sherlock was the most sensible thing to do in most situations. He'd thought that he could get away with not kissing the man for long enough, but now that he knew, now that he was fully aware of how damn good it was, John wasn't going to let a single opportunity slip away. He slid his hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck and tugged, bringing him closer so that he could suck on the man's bottom lip. John thought the taste of the man was unique, not just because he was Sherlock, or that he was unused to the scratch of stubble against chin and jaw, but because Sherlock eclipsed men and women both. John breathed out slowly as he drew back, his tongue touched to Sherlock's lip in the darkness.

"I know it's not technically part of the game," he said absently and Sherlock caught his breath in the darkness. "Does this count as a room?"

"It's the room in which the details of the crime are held," said Sherlock and slid his hands to John's waist, tugging his shirt free of his trousers. "It's a very important room to get to."

"I think so," said John and leaned in, nipped at Sherlock's lip and tasted his kiss. He stepped back, his foot scuffing the wall and chuckled quietly. "I can't see a thing."

"Well, when you're stripped of one sense, what do you do?"

"Personally, swear off the beer and wait for the hangover to go away, but that's really not what you meant."

"Not this time," said Sherlock and slid his hands round to John's bare back. John shivered, the temperature of the room only adding to the danger inherent in being down here. The door at the top of the stairs remained open and anyone could walk past. John had been caught having sex on several occasions, army life and university rarely offered enough privacy, but he wanted to keep this between the two of them, treasuring these moments when it seemed that Sherlock truly wanted to share everything he could.

It didn't stop him coaxing Sherlock into offering him his tongue. It didn't stop him sucking, his hips pushed forward so that he could meet Sherlock's erection with his own. He slid his hands to Sherlock's arse and pulled, needing the connection, wanting to feel the evidence that John Watson was not the only one in need of sex and now. Sex with Sherlock and now, to be more precise and he moaned when Sherlock's hands slid round and up to brush against his nipples. His skin felt more sensitive, the low temperature of the room seemed only to exacerbate the sensation. John dropped his head back as Sherlock dropped down, his lips pressing wet kisses against John's skin as he frantically unfastened John's belt and yanked down the zip on his trousers.

"Please," murmured John as Sherlock's hands pushed at his underwear. The cotton slipped down further, his dick hard and warm in Sherlock's hand as the man squeezed. Sherlock's fingers slid up, stroked, his thumb rubbing over the head, slick with pre-come and need. John moaned, sank down the wall slightly as Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to the very tip, offered a kiss that made John's balls throb. "Fuck, yes please."

John could feel the grin against his erection as Sherlock licked, his tongue pointed and, as he knew only from memory, pink and flexible. John groped in the darkness, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair as the detective slid his lips round the head of his dick. He could feel the way Sherlock caressed him with his lips, increased the suction so that John felt completely enclosed in Sherlock's mouth. He could feel the slight pressure of teeth, barely touching him but a part of the mouth John would so happily fuck into next week. John groaned loudly and Sherlock's hand was immediately at his mouth, covering it, limiting the noises John could make.

Sherlock slid free of John's cock and hummed lightly against his thigh. "Shall we continue to leave the rest of the household uninformed?"

John nipped lightly at Sherlock's palm and pushed it away. "Your brother knows."

"He suspects," said Sherlock and kissed the space between thigh and torso. "I'd rather not provide him with visceral proof."

John chuckled and closed his eyes in the darkness. "If I die down here in the cellar with your head round my dick, I'll die happy."

"That rather depends if I'm the murderer."

"Not really," said John and reached for Sherlock's hair again, tugging him back to the length of his erection. "It's not one of the approved weapons."

Sherlock chuckled and the noise resonated in the room. "Point noted," he said and John could feel Sherlock's breathing against his dick. "Now, where was I?"

"About to make it very difficult for me not to yell your name."

"Excellent," said Sherlock before he leaned in again. John bit down on the side of his hand as Sherlock sucked him. His erection throbbed, thrummed under Sherlock's fingers and mouth and he wondered how he'd coped before, when he had no clue what kind of lover Sherlock would be. He'd idly thought Sherlock might have no experience at all, had half dreamed about initiating him, being tender and slow. He hadn't imagined this, this version of his flatmate who could make John see stars in the dark. His eyelids flickered as he started to come, feeling the tight draw in his balls as he bucked forward, suckled and encouraged by Sherlock's mouth. He could feel the suction Sherlock offered, every last spurt tasted, swallowed and accepted.

His knees gave out as Sherlock lifted his mouth from his skin, his hands still supporting John's body. John clutched for the brickwork behind him and struggled not to giggle. "Oh God, it's cold down here."

"It's over a stream, I believe," said Sherlock. "It's an efficient method of keeping a room cool. Several houses in these parts employ the same method for refrigeration and larders."

The giggles echoed in the darkness and Sherlock got back to his feet. John reached down to fasten himself up, his knuckles brushing past Sherlock's unsatisfied penis. John turned his hand, his fingers covering the bulge in Sherlock's trousers as he heard the man catch his breath. "Thank you for the data," he said and squeezed firmly. "I don't think you can leave the cellar like this."

"Suggestions?" asked Sherlock.

"Well," said John. "A few come to mind, but how about..." he unfastened Sherlock's trousers and slid his hand in-between the fabric so he could hold the heavy length Sherlock offered. "Could be messy."

"I do hope so."

John grinned, leaned in closer as his hand worked the length of Sherlock's dick. Sherlock's mouth tasted only slightly different, warm and liquid against John's own. He could smell his spend, familiar and welcome and John's hand squeezed. The darkness held them both, but his eyes had adjusted slightly and John could see the tip tilted shape of Sherlock's own, open and watching John in return. Women didn't do this with John. He'd had his hands down more pants than he could actually remember, but Sherlock's brain was always on, except for those brief moments when John could master and make him lose it.

He moved his hand steadily over the length of Sherlock's erection, mimicking the sensation he'd had only minutes earlier. John kissed him, tasted his mouth, sucked on his tongue and never forgot that Sherlock was watching as he brought the great detective closer. He was waiting for that gasp, for that single moment when Sherlock surrendered, when John was his friend, his lover and equal. Sherlock came with a groan, the single guttural syllable of John's name exhaled somewhere between them, Sherlock's spend on his fingers as his eyes finally closed.

John drew his hand back slowly, considered briefly and swiped it over the tissues he'd stuffed in his pocket earlier as Sherlock tidied himself away. He kissed Sherlock's jaw and slid his arms up and round the man's back. Nothing too extraordinary between lovers, just a hug after orgasm, but John felt it was needed in the dark. Here in the black they could be something more than just flatmates having casual sex. Here John believed that if there was ever a romantic relationship that could work for him, it was this one.

He rested his head briefly against Sherlock's own and smiled when Sherlock's hands settled against his back and held. "I really hope your brother's not looking too closely."

"I've arranged for Mrs Cartright's best brunch," said Sherlock. "The fat content should take his mind off it."

John grinned and leaned back slightly. "I do have to question you."

"Your questions have been overwhelmingly simplistic," said Sherlock. "You've asked everyone where they were when the murder happened."

"It seemed sensible."

"Not telling."

"You'd be surprised."

"I doubt it."

John grinned and leaned back. "Where were you?"

Sherlock kissed him. "You know where."

"Yep. I do. But you have to say it. It's in the rules."

"I thought we were going with you and I being upstairs?"

"Not at the time of the murder proper," said John. "You have to stick to the script."

Sherlock sighed and took a step toward the stairs, hand round John's arm. "In the lounge," he said. "Obviously. Any other questions?"

John grinned as he hit the second step. "Did you do it?"

Sherlock turned at the top step and opened the door. "Oh, come on, John. Is this how you think you've solved the murder? You can do better."

"Much better," said John and nodded to the clock. "It's almost eleven. Time to unmask the murderer."

"You haven't solved it!"

"Actually, _you_ haven't solved it," said John and waved to Mycroft as he walked toward them. "Get in there and pretend you don't mind not being centre stage."

He opened the door as Sherlock stared at him and walked through, leaving John with two questions. How unbearable would Sherlock be when John revealed the truth and could his bed support the bouncing he intended to inflict on it afterward.


	9. The Murderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summation gathering. The murderer is finally revealed.
> 
> Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson bid goodbye to the Cotswolds and to very bad murder mysteries!

The study was an ideal setting for a grand reveal.

It appeared to be the one room in the house in which Mrs Cartright had invested more than a fraction of capital. John thought that the imposing bureau in the far corner was more than likely her own, given the scuff marks on the edge of the desk and the condition of the chair pushed firmly beneath. The chair itself was not an antique, though it was clearly in its second life of upholstering and much sat upon. The wallpaper was more luxurious than that in the lounge, and though John thought it friendly than their own, it had elements in common that made him feel comfortable as the rest of the guests took their places.

It had not been the sort of murder mystery weekend that he'd imagined. Sex with Sherlock aside, he'd only worn the jacket once and the rest of his costume was still folded neatly in his suitcase. He hadn't had to follow the supposed hired help around and no one else, (aside from Sherlock) had made any effort to solve the case. Mycroft might have made copies of Mrs Cartright's clues, but he was no longer in possession of the paperwork and John thought that was a very good thing.

Molly had taken the seat on the sofa next to Mrs Hudson and was sipping from a glass of brandy she clearly liked. Lestrade perched on the arm beside her, giving him what John considered to be optimal viewing conditions for the gap in Molly's cardigan. He grinned at John when he looked over and drank deeply from the glass as he adjusted his trousers. Evidently John was not the only one who'd been enjoying a naughty weekend.

Mycroft sat in the wingback chair, his chef whites discarded and a more familiar but ill fitting suit clinging to him. John had never quite seen him in one that fit, given that they were always slightly too big or slightly too small, depending which way the diet was going. He was talking on the phone, making quiet and seemingly innocuous conversation to some unknown persons that could very well be a shopping list or an execution order. He'd deliver both with the same expression, John was certain of that. He glanced at John briefly and offered an uncomfortable smile without paying the slightest attention to him at all.

Of the five of them, only Sherlock was looking at John. He'd seemed a little put out by Mycroft's position in the room and had taken to lounging against the fireplace, poker in hand as the fire gleamed dimly. He gave the coals an occasional poke and looked back at John, eyebrow raised as the clock swung evenly toward eleven. For a man who gave time only the briefest of considerations, the waiting must have felt like torture. However, John liked the idea of meeting the target set and he stood at the edge of the sofa, positioned to see everyone easily.

Sherlock looked less disheveled than he had any right to be. He certainly didn't look like a man who'd just delivered one of the most memorable blow jobs John could recall, or indeed like a man who'd just spilled in John's fingers, barely minutes before. The casual observer might believe him slightly bored, perhaps a petulant younger brother forced to attend this little gathering. Only the flexing of his free hand gave John any reason to believe he was on edge, hyper and ready for action. He could move from inaction to action at a second's notice and John considered him to be every inch a keen fighting instrument, mind and body honed to obey every command Sherlock made of them.

He stared pointedly at John as the hand on the clock touched the hour and lifted the poker with just enough threat behind it to make John grin. John took a drink of the glass in his hand, considered briefly whether it was far too early for any of them to be drinking, before he launched into the speech he'd been mulling over.

"I suppose you're all wondering why I've asked you here."

" _I_ asked them here," said Sherlock. "And you're going to reveal the murderer, so we're all aware of that too."

Mrs Hudson leaned over and pressed her hand against Sherlock's arm. "It's tradition," she said in a loud whisper. "It's what you do."

"Yes, but-"

"Hush, Sherlock. Let John talk."

John grinned. "Thanks, Mrs H. Now, as I was saying-"

"Will this take long?" asked Mycroft, holding the phone against his chest. "I _do_ have a car waiting."

"Shouldn't take too long, no," said John. "Few minutes, maybe. I think the country can wait that long."

"Of course," said Mycroft. "The safety of this country can certainly wait a few moments before it is ensured in order to resolve a fictional and ill thought out roleplay."

John cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back. "Right, well, to recap, we're all here because Doctor Black was murdered."

"Suicide," said Sherlock and John shook his head. "Only explanation."

"One explanation of _some_ of the evidence," said John. "We're here because we all could have done it."

He glanced round and Mrs Hudson shook her head as Molly covered her mouth. Lestrade grinned, clearly enjoying himself and he nodded. "Sounds about right," said Lestrade. "Go on, I wanna know how it was done."

"It was an arranged dummy," said Sherlock. "It's quite obvious how it was done."

"Possibly," said John and let his shoulders drop back as he talked. "As I was saying, any of us could have done it."

"Not me, dear," said Mrs Hudson. "My hip doesn't allow for murdering."

"Mrs Hudson, I'm quite sure if you wanted to, you could murder with the best of them," said John.

"Thank you."

"In fact, you could have murdered Doctor Black, given that you told me you were in the library reading a book and we know that at the time of the murder you were actually looking at the silver in the hall."

"Mrs Hudson!" Molly turned to look at her. "Were you really?"

"I was having a nosey," said Mrs Hudson and shook her head at John. "I _had_ been in the library."

"You had, but there was absolutely nothing to stop you taking the candlestick you had at hand, slipping across to the lounge and clubbing the doctor over the head," said John with a flourish. "He'd already caught you looking at the silver earlier, with an eye to steal it. You could have done it, nipped back and then joined the others when we found the body there later."

"Oh I couldn't," she said and looked round. "I didn't even know there _was_ a candlestick. Is that how he was killed, then?"

"No."

"Shut up, Sherlock," said John and shook his head at Mrs Hudson. "You didn't, though. I know that. You looked at the silver and then hurried back when you heard someone coming. Right?"

"Yes," she said and took a quick drink. "I didn't see who, though."

"No," said John. "You wouldn't have done. But your silver stealing days are over."

She clasped her hands to her bosom and giggled. "It's just like Poirot."

John grinned as Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked toward the mirror. It was definitely a distracting move and John wasn't buying it for a second. Sherlock could sulk like no-one's business and far more dramatically than he was attempting here. John stood at ease and addressed Lestrade.

"Of course, you also had a motive," said John and Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah? How's that, then?"

"Doctor Black knew you were a womaniser and turned a blind eye to the many widows you'd comforted. But he couldn't quite ignore it when one of your widows confessed she'd done her best to do away with her husband to be with you. Especially when you callously threw her over afterward."

Lestrade grinned and stretched. "Not my fault she found me irresistible."

"Stay in character," said Molly and set her hand on his thigh. "You're a man of the cloth."

"Only here," said Lestrade and rested his hand over Molly's. "So go on then, tell everyone how I did it."

"He didn't do it," said Sherlock and John nodded.

"Nope. Couldn't have done. He was busy setting up the pool table in case a pretty miss came over to try a game."

"Shame on you, Greg," said Mrs Hudson and leaned in close to Molly. "It's good to see you happy, dear."

Molly flushed and John gestured toward her. "Ah yes, the lovely but deadly Miss Scarlett."

"Deadly?" asked Molly. "I thought I was a vamp."

"A vamp who sneaks apple pie?" asked John. "You were in the dining room because you could hear an argument next door. You missed the killer walking away, because you were afraid someone might see you and work out that you were the one blackmailing various people in town."

"Well if they didn't have dirty little secrets," said Molly and grinned. "So you know I didn't do it."

"Obviously," breathed Sherlock and waved a hand at John. "Are we going to spend this entire time discussing who didn't do it? Isn't it more productive to reveal who did?"

"In good time," said John and turned to Mycroft. "He was going to fire you."

"For substandard pastry," said Mycroft. "As if that were possible, even for an invented cook. Mrs White has impeccable credentials."

"Government issued?" asked John and Mycroft got to his feet. "You had the motive and the means. You know this house better than anyone."

"Of course," said Mycroft and brushed invisible dust from his collar. "But in this case, I was not the murderer."

"In this case?"

Mycroft smiled at John and took out his phone. "In every case," he said. "And as relaxing as this break has been, I have to take my leave of you." He walked to the door as Molly held her hand up. "No, Miss Hooper, I was not the murderer, as John very well knows."

She turned to John, who shook his head. "Not him."

"Oh." She turned on the seat to look at the elegant figure by the fireplace. "Oh!"

Mycroft smiled as Sherlock's shoulders gave a dissident shrug. "I'll leave you to your deductions," he said and opened the door. "Sherlock, do try to keep to our arrangement on Wednesday."

Sherlock shrugged again and turned back to the room as Mycroft left, arms and ankles folded as he looked at John. He focussed on John, a vague smile at the corner of his mouth. "What's my motive?"

"Jealousy," said John and sat down on the edge of Mycroft's vacated wingback. "You knew Doctor Black was about to publish a paper that would discount your findings."

"I seriously doubt it," said Sherlock and glanced at the three on the sofa. "Oh come on, outwitted by a dummy? Me?"

"Could be," said Lestrade. "You do like it when things are clever."

"Shut up," said Sherlock and looked back at John. "So that's my motive?"

"It's definitely the one you're supposed to have," said John. "I checked."

"I could think of at least five better ones," said Sherlock. "Six, at a pinch."

"We don't need a pinch," said John and cleared his throat. "So, with that in mind, you were already in the lounge with Doctor Black. That's the argument Miss Scarlett heard."

"Really?" asked Molly and covered her mouth briefly. "I had the evidence."

"You had _some_ evidence," said Sherlock. "Not enough to convict, even in Mrs Cartright's study." He turned back to John. "So because I had an argument with him, I killed him? Is that what you're about to claim?"

"What was he killed with?" asked John and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Rope, that was evident from the first."

"Oh, Sherlock," said Mrs Hudson. She patted Molly's hand. "I thought it might have been _me_. I really should have read my character notes properly."

John paused and looked back at the other three. "Just rope?"

"Rope," said Sherlock. "A fine twist, much like the one we used on Mycroft."

Lestrade laughed. "I knew I'd missed something."

"Missed one or two things," said John and reached out to the curtain. He loosened the cord and pulled it free. "It was actually something like this."

"A curtain cord?" asked Molly. "I suppose it would work."

"Of course it would work," said Sherlock and walked over to John. He pulled the length through his fingers and looked back at John with a frown. "You could do it with a bit of thread, if you had to."

John grinned back at him. "But I didn't."

"No, you didn't," said Sherlock, the grin very much in evidence. "John Watson, I believe you've found your murderer."

"He has?" asked Molly. "You did it?"

"No, of course I didn't do it," said Sherlock and dropped the curtain cord. He looked at John a moment longer and turned to her. "I can hear the cars outside. You're all packed, I take it?"

"My case is in the hall," said Molly and got to her feet. "Well, this has been really quite nice."

"Brilliant," said Lestrade and flicked his hand, a brief salute before he walked to hold the door open. "I'll see you both soon enough. Good ride back."

"You too," said John and stepped over to Mrs Hudson. "I'll give you a lift with your bags."

"Oh? You're not coming back with me?"

"I think we're going to take advantage of the long weekend," said John. "Might go see you later."

"Possibly," said Sherlock and John grinned, saw them all out, handshakes, hugs and kisses shared before he headed back to the study. He pushed his hands in his pockets and grinned widely at Sherlock.

"So," he began and shrugged his shoulders. "All alone here."

"So it would seem," said Sherlock and tilted his head. "With a murderer."

"I'll take my chances."

Sherlock sighed as he looked at John. "You knew from the start."

"Friday night," said John and grinned. "There was a message on my pillow when I went to bed. I was expecting mints or one of those chocolate things."

"You knew and you hid it from me," said Sherlock and frowned. "How did you hide it from me? You're an appalling liar and this would have solved everything instantly. It's just not possible for you to have kept this secret. You looked me in the eye and said nothing."

"Well, you had your theories."

"And I'm still inclined to say I was right," said Sherlock. "It makes far more sense for the stupid doctor to have strangled himself than for you to have killed him."

John chuckled. "Whether it makes sense or not, it's in the game. You slapped the doctor and he screamed and ran out of the lounge. I caught him in the hall and strangled him with the curtain cord before dumping him back in the lounge as you exited."

"You're simply not that fast on your feet."

"I can be quick when I want to be," said John. "And I did have to be, because he knew my shady dealings on the black market and was prepared to tell Miss Scarlett about them that night."

"Preposterous."

"Most murders are," said John. "A few of our own cases have been on the verge, if you remember. Chinese smugglers?"

"But they were _real_ ," said Sherlock. "That made _sense_."

"Tough. He was killed in the hall, with the rope, by Colonel Mustard. And _you_ got it wrong."

Sherlock pouted before he straightened up. "This is a stupid game."

"Maybe," said John. He reached out and slid his hand round Sherlock's own, closing his fingers over the slender digits on offer. "Of course, we did have a deal."

"Hmm?" said Sherlock and glanced down at their fingers before he looked back at John. "Oh."

"Is that a good sound or-"

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him briefly. "Did you really want to stay here longer?"

"I thought that was the idea," said John. "Stay out of London for a bit. See if this works?"

"This has always worked," said Sherlock firmly. "And I believe I promised to start addressing this. It's hardly of interest to Mrs Cartright. Unless you really want to tell some landlady you scarcely know that you're my...boyfriend."

Sherlock winced at the word and John giggled. "Okay, maybe you could say we're partners."

"We _are_ partners."

"Try it out."

Sherlock sighed, dropped his head back and looked at John. "We're partners."

"There, see? Not too difficult."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's not. Dammit, it's not quite..." He looked back at John. "We need something else."

"Well, you're back to boyfriend," said John and Sherlock shook his head. "Sweethearts?"

"Fetch my revolver."

John laughed as Sherlock sighed and let go of his hand. He walked to the doorway and leaned out into the hall. "Mrs Cartright?" he called. "My lover and I will be leaving immediately."

He walked into the hall, leaving John laughing loudly behind him. "That's not going to work. I swear, I think maybe even colleague works better."

"Then you come up with something," said Sherlock. "What do you usually call people you're involved with?"

"Darling," said John and shrugged his shoulders as Sherlock walked up the stairs to grab his case. "Love. Baby. I mean I can try those but-"

"If you call me 'baby' I will fill the fridge entirely with intestines," said Sherlock and passed John's case to him. "And you wouldn't use those if you were talking to someone else. You'd say girlfriend."

John nodded and waved to the landlady as she hurried them out to the waiting car. "You're not my girlfriend."

"Obviously not."

John held the door open as Sherlock climbed in. "Well, think of something. We'll go with what you decide."

Sherlock settled back against the seat as the driver put the cases in the boot. "Are you sure?"

John nodded and sat next to him. "I'm used to living dangerously."

With Sherlock quieted, John settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. Heading home to Baker Street was good, though he was withholding complete judgment until they'd dealt with the real world. He smiled as he felt Sherlock move closer, apparently able to share a little more company when it was the two of them and John dozed. He was nudged sharply in the ribs as the car pulled up and Sherlock climbed out.

John stretched slightly and sighed at the sight of Baker Street again. Much as he'd liked looking out of the window at the trees and endless stretch of hills and valleys, he felt at home amongst bricks and mortar. London was his town and he breathed in deeply, clean air forgotten and inner city living back in his heart again. Sherlock pushed open the door and gestured for John to follow.

"Mrs Hudson," he called out as he hung up his coat and pulled his scarf free. "We're home. Don't send out the search party."

She stepped to the door as Sherlock headed up the stairs and John brought the cases in.

"I thought you were going to stay there longer."

"Couldn't resist coming home," said John and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh, it was lovely," said Mrs Hudson. "You boys had fun?"

"Yeah," said John and looked up as Sherlock called his name. "I'd better head up, see what he wants."

She patted his arm. "Don't let him boss you about."

"I won't," said John and Sherlock called again. John walked up the stairs carefully and as he got to their door, Sherlock reached out and pulled him inside. He'd object, except Sherlock had stripped completely and pressed him back against the wall to kiss him. John grinned against his mouth and settled his hand on Sherlock's hip.

"Mrs Hudson said I'm not to let you boss me about," said John and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I _never_ do that," he said firmly. "I explain what needs to be done."

"Right," said John and reached to close the door. He hesitated and called downstairs. "Mrs Hudson," he said. "No visitors tonight."

"Not your housekeeper, dear."

"Excellent," said Sherlock and turned back to John as he raised his voice. "I'm staying in for the night with my boyfriend. Don't bother us. We _will_ be naked."

John raised his eyebrows. "I thought-"

"I've never actually had a boyfriend," said Sherlock and tugged at John's pullover. "Can we try enjoying it before I make you look for another word?"

John grinned and reached out, hand flailing for the door as Sherlock stripped him down. And as the pullover hit the wood, the door closed, sealing them into 221b for the night. At least testing out being a boyfriend with a boyfriend gave him familiar surroundings. He'd just never been naked in them with Sherlock before.

He intended to continue the day's investigations thoroughly.


	10. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Baker Street there is smut.
> 
> A lot of smut. A lot of naked, oh so pretty men. Well two men. A lot of nakedness.

A naked Sherlock Holmes was slippery, warm and everywhere at once.

When John got tangled in his shirt, Sherlock's mouth was on his skin, tasting the fragile flesh at his shoulder, making it very difficult for John to do anything other than revel. He couldn't quite pull his shirt free, his concentration broken where Sherlock's teeth nipped his skin and John had to think carefully as he eased his hand out of the cuff. How Sherlock had managed to strip so efficiently was evident from the clothing strewn over the living room floor. His shoes hadn't been untied and John could only spot one of his socks.

It all promised to be a good evening and John managed to shed his shirt and get his hands back on Sherlock. His skin glowed as he moved against John, hands on his skin and John's belt buckle refused to unfasten easily.

"Damn the thing," snapped Sherlock. "Why do you even own something like this?"

"Present," said John and looked down at Sherlock's fingers. "Don't break it. Here."

He pushed Sherlock's hands out of the way and unfastened the clasp with a flick, giggling when Sherlock whipped it free and tossed it back toward the sofa. "Okay," he said, "but you're going to remember where that went."

"Details," said Sherlock and unfastened John's jeans. The rough fabric caught on his thighs as Sherlock shoved them down. "You couldn't have worn trousers?"

"Stop complaining about my clothes and get them off," said John. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underpants and pushed. His foot was caught, one shoe still on and his socks rumpled by his toes. "Give me a minute."

"You don't need a minute!"

"I need _something_ ," said John and toed his shoes off as Sherlock tugged at his t-shirt.

"It's just a ridiculous amount to wear," said Sherlock. "It's not that cold."

"It's all off now."

"Yes, but it took far too long," said Sherlock and reached for John's hand, pushing it up above his head as he pressed John back against the wall. Sherlock drew his fingertips down over John's collar bone, brushing the skin there as he leaned in to kiss John. His lips were firm against John's own, his tongue licking lightly over John's, Sherlock's body insistent and firm all over.

John drew his head back and grinned. "You shocked Mrs Hudson."

"I very much doubt it," said Sherlock. "There'll be cakes for tea, I guarantee it."

"On a Sunday?"

"She'll bake," said Sherlock and John frowned. Sherlock leaned in, his mouth curved in a smile against John's ear. "The kitchen's the furthest room from yours."

John chuckled and twisted his hand free in Sherlock's grasp so that he could lock fingers. "Is that your incredibly subtle way of telling me you're a screamer?"

"You don't need to scream to make noise," said Sherlock firmly and rubbed his hips against John's own. John groaned, the contact delicious and hot and close. He could feel the rub of penis against his skin, against his own erection, soft skinned and firm beneath. "See?"

"Yeah," said John and moved his free hand to Sherlock's arse. He tugged, hand spanning one firm cheek as he pulled Sherlock in close. "God, I want you."

"Yes, obviously," said Sherlock and John took a quick breath. "Ah, pillow talk?"

"Pretty much," said John. "Thank you would work. Or you could try, you want me too."

"Again, obviously," said Sherlock and frowned. "We are naked and aroused. Words here-"

"Are very welcome," said John. "I like listening to you talk."

He shifted his stance slightly so he could rub himself against Sherlock. He could feel the heat between them, body to body and John's flesh was sleek against Sherlock's own. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Sherlock's throat, feeling the pulse beneath, yet another sign that the man was human, was needy, given the elevation. John licked at his skin and evened the movements of his hips, rocking back and forth until he could feel Sherlock mimicking him.

"Talk about what?" asked Sherlock quietly, his breath betraying how urgent this new data was.

"Anything."

"Oh."

John could feel his foreskin slide back, rub, slip against Sherlock's penis and he groaned at the contact. He could live with coming right here, provided he got the chance to do it again. It was their flat after all and they had all night. They had all of however long they could get if John had any say in it. He rolled his hips slower, trying to make it last so he could enjoy bouncing in that bed with Sherlock. Despite his attempts at control, he could feel himself getting closer and took a quick breath when he heard Sherlock murmur something against his ear.

"What was that?"

"Hmm?"

"You were saying something," said John and tipped his head back. "Sherlock?"

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Nothing, it wasn't important."

"It sounded important."

"Theoretically, yes," said Sherlock and his erection jumped against John's belly, slick with pre-come.

"So tell me," said John and kissed him again. "If it's important-"

"It's the periodic table."

"What?"

Sherlock licked over his bottom lip. "I believe I'm not alone in this and I did try to be considerate. It could have been the decomposition of-"

"Yes, thank you," said John and winked at Sherlock. "Football scores," he said. "I guess the periodic table's not too bad. Pretty good, considering."

"I thought so," said Sherlock and glanced between them. "John?"

"Yes?"

"As much as I am enjoying this, and I truly am. I would very much like to take you to bed."

John grinned and kissed him.

"What now?" demanded Sherlock and John tugged at his hand. "Was that not right?"

"Perfect," said John. "Now come to bed."

Sherlock stared at him for a second before he moved, his feet light on the floor as he pushed open the bedroom door and tugged John inside. John laughed as Sherlock scrambled to push all the covers from his bed and tossed the pillows to the floor. "Don't throw them away," he said. "We might need them."

"For what?" asked Sherlock and frowned. "For some kind of support?"

"Possibly," said John and Sherlock dropped the pillows back on the bed. He walked back to John and kissed him again. "So this is what you've been thinking about between cases?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"No?" asked John. "It's what I've been thinking about. Are you saying you really only wanted to do this since we went to the Cotswolds?"

"Not remotely," said Sherlock. "I have thought about this. But it usually occurs to me when I'm working. It's highly inconvenient."

John licked over his bottom lip and walked Sherlock back to the bed. "This's been distracting you?"

"Yes."

"I can't say I've noticed."

"Really?" asked Sherlock. "I'd have thought it painfully obvious. Six days ago in Putney, I hesitated before I could work out exactly who had taken the pearls. It was _blatant_."

"Was it?" asked John and thought carefully, a job made that much more difficult when he had a completely naked Sherlock half wrestling him to the bed. "At what point?"

"On the balcony," said Sherlock. "I turned to ask you where the baker's shoes were and there you were, looking as annoyingly interesting as always and I thought how beautiful you'd look stretched over my bed. I almost didn't recall that the shoes were dusty and not from flour. It was ridiculous!"

John grinned and climbed onto the mattress, pushing Sherlock back so he could kiss any part he liked. He liked pretty much all of them. John dropped a kiss on the inside of Sherlock's ankle and drew his tongue along the inside of his calf. "I've been an idiot."

Sherlock sat up and watched as John pressed his lips where he pleased. "Sometimes," he said. "You've tried rather more recently."

John lifted his head as Sherlock's fingers brushed against the soft strands of his hair. "I don't mean on cases. I mean I've worried about talking to you about this. I don't know what I thought you'd make of it."

Sherlock frowned. "You were worried it would change things."

"Well, obviously," said John and leaned up on his knees, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, unable to stop touching him. He kissed Sherlock slowly, lingering over his bottom lip before he drew back. "With everything you've said about friends, I didn't want to make you feel you had to lose one."

"Lose you?" asked Sherlock and shook his head. "Why would I do that?"

John grinned. "Some people might be a bit put out if their best friend told them they'd cover their back _and_ their front."

Sherlock glanced down as John sat comfortably between his legs, his thighs resting lightly on the outside of Sherlock's own. There was scarcely any space between them and John stroked his hand along Sherlock's shoulder, along his arm and up to his jaw. John leaned in, open mouthed kisses pressed along the lean line of Sherlock's neck before he found his mouth.

"I like you covering my front," said Sherlock and John smiled against his mouth. "Is that really why you had to come away with me before you said anything?"

"Technically you said something," said John. "We were on holiday. You can always relax a bit on holiday."

"You relaxed your way out of claiming to be entirely straight."

"I never said that."

"Oh please. Even I can't count how many times you've stated loudly that you're not gay."

"Not the same as claiming to be entirely straight," said John and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't miss a trick?"

"Apparently I do, on occasion," said Sherlock and slipped his hand to John's neck and tugged until he was baring his throat. John shivered as Sherlock kissed his way along his throat, his hair brushing John's skin as he moved. "So you would have kept this from me?"

"You said I hadn't done a good job of that," said John. "Oh God, keep doing that."

Sherlock grinned against his neck and licked at his pulse. "Would you?"

John couldn't quite stop the groan that escaped, but he did his best not to turn into a puddle. "I didn't want to make things weird between us."

"Some people would say our life is weird," said Sherlock and applied pressure to John's neck, sucking slowly, his teeth grazing the skin before he drew back, satisfied with the mark he left. "Some people-"

"Some people are stupid," said John and drew Sherlock back up so he could kiss him. He liked kissing Sherlock when he was grinning. John liked the way Sherlock resisted, before he succumbed entirely, offering tongue and lips and teeth until John's mouth felt a little swollen and tingling. He could take this as much as he could. He paused to catch his breath and stroked his fingertips down Sherlock's side. "I wasn't planning on telling you."

"Idiot," grinned Sherlock. "I knew."

"You don't know everything," said John and licked at Sherlock's lip. "You didn't know about the murderer."

"Yes, but that was due to poor writing," said Sherlock. "It made no sense."

"Lots of things don't," said John and pushed Sherlock back against the bed. He straddled Sherlock's hips easily and rolled his hips leisurely, sliding his dick against Sherlock's own as he dropped warm kisses on Sherlock's chest. "People might say we don't."

"People are stupid," huffed Sherlock and lifted his head. "That. What you're doing. I like that."

"Good to have feedback," said John and moved one leg casually to the inside of Sherlock's. He kissed Sherlock's chest and eased his way back to his mouth. "So, boyfriend?"

"Short of something idiotically romantic, it will do," said Sherlock and ran his hand down the slope of John's back. He squeezed John's arse firmly and John bucked up against him. John groaned and Sherlock licked at his exposed throat. "I do have a favour to ask."

"You are seriously going the right way about it."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed him again. "Wednesday," he said. "I've agreed to attend a function."

"What kind of function," murmured John as he wriggled his other leg between Sherlock's and felt the man move, his calves resting on the back of John's own. "Yes," he said. "Suit and tie?"

"Black tie," said Sherlock and cleared his throat as John rolled his hips. "You'll come?"

"Hmm?"

"Wednesday?" asked Sherlock. "Mycroft-"

"Yes, yes, whatever," said John. "We don't need his name here."

John leaned in to kiss Sherlock and scrambled on the table, his hand feeling about for something useful. He landed on a bottle of something he hoped wasn't part of Sherlock's experiments and lifted it to check. "Thank God."

"For what?"

"Because you do spend some time on your own," said John and Sherlock frowned.

"I spend a lot of time alone."

"With your dick," said John and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know."

"I'm not inhuman," said Sherlock and huffed. "It's practical."

"Believe me, I'm not complaining," said John and flipped the top off. He squeezed some of the slippery liquid onto his fingers. "It's warm."

"Of course it's warm," said Sherlock and his breath caught as John reached between them and slid his fingertips over perineum and against the puckered entrance behind. "That's new."

"Warm," murmured John and pressed his lips against Sherlock's nipple, sucking slowly as his fingertips pushed, teased and rubbed against the tight little opening. He could feel the slipperiness against his fingers and the way Sherlock's erection throbbed against his belly, harder as John gained purchase and slid inside. He'd been here before, but never with such an obvious and physical reaction from his lover. John's lover arched beneath him and John felt, touched, slid in deeper with his fingertips and lifted his head from Sherlock's chest. "You're really warm."

"I'm," began Sherlock and blinked as he looked back at John. "A little dizzy."

"You okay?" asked John and drew his fingers back. "You eaten today?"

"Toast," said Sherlock. "Marmalade."

"Excellent," said John. "And afterward I'll get takeout and you'll eat the lot."

Sherlock groaned as John's fingers crooked gently, touching him from the inside out. John clenched each time he felt Sherlock push up against him. He licked over his bottom lip and felt his dick throb, felt a little desperate and he caught his breath. John bent down, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. "I need to be inside you."

"Well, get on with it," sighed Sherlock and John grinned.

He moved carefully but quickly, back on his knees as he squeezed more liquid onto his fingers and slid them over his dick. He could feel how slippery it made him, how his dick seemed to reflect what was left of the sunlight and how it painted Sherlock's body with highlights of gold and dimmed silver. He could revel in watching, but Sherlock reached for him and squeezed John's forearms. "Now," he said and John groaned.

John shifted his weight, moved to lift Sherlock's legs so that they were higher against his thighs. He took his dick firmly in hand and leaned in closer, pressing the head against the slippery opening between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock caught his breath and reached up, locking his hand around John's free arm. John pressed forward, feeling the resistance as he eased in, the sudden rush as the head of his dick disappeared from view, sinking into the tight heat of his lover.

"John," said Sherlock and John recognised the urgency, the faint panic and overall, the need in one word. He  bent forward over Sherlock as he slid deeper and John caught hold of Sherlock's thigh and lifted it higher. John spread his knees wider on the bed, trying to keep his cool, struggling against the warmth of being inside Sherlock, of being this connected and aware of everything he wanted to do. He needed this to be something they did together and he found Sherlock's mouth, his lips parted as John bent to kiss him.

"Hot as hell," he murmured and let out a shaky laugh as Sherlock joined him. He kissed Sherlock slowly as he moved, rolling his hips back and then in, building the pace slowly as Sherlock started to move with him. John felt the heavy weight of Sherlock's erection push against his belly and he moaned, reached between them with a slight turn of his still slippery hand and stroked over his skin. Sherlock kissed him back harder, his tongue pushed up and into John's mouth as they moved, barely breaking pace to push against one another.

John could feel the orgasm coming, could feel the way his balls drew up tight, his arse clenching tight and he bucked harder. His hand closed tighter round Sherlock's dick and he growled out the man's name, determined that he wouldn't come until Sherlock did. He could barely breathe, could barely think, but he opened his eyes wide as Sherlock cried out. One syllable. One completely familiar syllable that made John lose what little control he had.

He came with his head spinning and his hips pressed up against Sherlock's own. His belly was slippery with come and sweat, John's hair was damp to the roots and he felt like screaming. His back arched, almost a painful bow as he sank deep and then sank down, John's head against Sherlock's neck and his hand crushed between them. John struggled to pull his hand free, sighed and kissed Sherlock's skin. "Oh yes," he murmured. "That's what I want."

"Excellent," said Sherlock. "It's certainly what you've got."

John giggled and carefully eased free before he dropped onto his back. "Boyfriend," he said quietly and turned his head to look at Sherlock. "That's how we're going to refer to this?"

"To others. If we need to," said Sherlock and turned to look back at John. He lifted his hand and brushed it against John's cheek. "Thank you."

"God, thank _you_ ," said John and kissed the back of Sherlock's fingers. "I feel boneless."

"I feel a little odd myself," said Sherlock and smiled. "So, takeout?"

"Yeah," said John and moved to try and get up before giving it up as a bad job. "Okay, I'll do it in a minute."

"No rush," said Sherlock and closed his eyes. "There's a place in Soho that rents black tie that owes me a favour. We can go there tomorrow."

"You're serious about this thing for your brother," said John and grinned as he reached for tissues and cleaned as much mess away as he could. "What's he got on you?"

"I told you," said Sherlock. "It's just a favour."

"Must have been a big favour," said John and Sherlock smiled.

"Worthwhile," said Sherlock and reached for John's hand. "Stay?"

"Going nowhere," said John and rested his arm behind his head. He set his palm over Sherlock's and rested his fingers between the outstretched digits. "Boyfriend."

"Shut up."

John giggled and closed his eyes. "It's only funny because it's true."

"That depends on if you let me sleep," said Sherlock.

John's smile was etched across his face as he slept.


End file.
